


Nothing to Make a Song About

by emmagrant01



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returned from his faked death, John could not forgive him for the deception and broke off their friendship. Ten years later, John returns to London in search of yet another new beginning. Sherlock, not surprisingly, is waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alecto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alecto/gifts).
  * Translation into Français available: [Nothing to Make a Song About, traduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4498212) by [LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie/pseuds/LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie)



> • Written for Alecto, who won a fic from me in a Tumblr giveaway months ago. Sorry I'm just getting to this now, but I hope you enjoy it!  
> • Beta'd by the ever fantastic Drinkingcocoa, whose cheerleading and honest critique are invaluable to me.  
> • Title is taken from the poem [Reconciliation](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/reconciliation/) by William Butler Yeats.  
> • Warning in the first chapter for a brief but gruesome crime scene description.
> 
>  **Playlist** by thedoctorloves221b [here](http://8tracks.com/danielrik10/johnlock-nothing-to-make-a-song-about)
> 
>  **Translation into German:** by Canyoupassmeapen [here](http://www.fanfiktion.de/s/5128f801000291b006713c6a)  
>  **Translation into Russian** by LessOrdinary [here](http://ficbook.net/readfic/2260530%20)
> 
> Links to fanart are in the text. As always, consider the context before you click...

Ah, grocery store sushi: John Watson examined the cellophane-wrapped package and wrinkled his nose. It was always disappointing, but for some reason he kept buying it, as if he expected it might be different this time. 

That was the definition of insanity, wasn't it?

"John?"

He turned in the direction of a familiar voice, and it was a full second before he could speak. Standing a few feet away, shopping basket dangling from one hand, was Greg Lestrade. John shook his head, almost incredulous, and grinned. "My God, Greg. It's good to see you. It's been… Jesus, years."

Greg's hair was greyer than John remembered and there were more lines around his eyes, but the grin on his face was just as cheeky as ever. "Eight, maybe? Too many, anyway. I thought you lived in Chelmsford."

"Back in London now, since about a month ago. I've a flat just around the corner, actually."

"Have you? We live just a few streets away. Jesus, we're neighbors and I had no idea. How is—" He paused and winced. "God, sorry, I can't remember your wife's name."

John's lips pressed together in a tight smile. "Mary. And she's not my wife anymore, so don't worry about it."

Greg's expression fell. "Oh, shit. Sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not." John smiled, and realized he meant it. "So how have you been? Congratulations on the promotion, by the way. I saw a mention of you on the news a few months back, with that triple-homicide case in Knightsbridge. I meant to email you."

"Yeah, cheers. It's mostly a promotion in title, though. I don't get out in the field as much as I'd like, but it's nice to have fewer people telling me what to do, I must admit."

"I can imagine. I heard you got married a couple of years ago."

Greg's face lit up. "Yes! Lori is the woman I should have married in the first place. Hindsight, eh? She works at the Yard as well, in the IT department. I don't think you've met her, have you?"

"Not that I recall, no." 

"You'd love her; she's fantastic. Smart, funny, much hotter than I deserve." Greg pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the time. "Shit. Look, her son and daughter-in-law are coming over for dinner tonight and I've got to get back with all of this." He held up his basket. "But I'm so glad to know you're back. We should get together at the pub around the corner later this week, and catch up."

John smiled. "Yeah, that'd be fantastic."

They exchanged numbers and Greg walked away, turning back once to grin and wave before disappearing around the end of an aisle. John took a deep breath and released it slowly. He felt oddly empty now, even depressed. Shouldn't he be happy to reconnect with an old friend, to know Greg was happy and doing well in his career and his life? 

He ought, definitely. But of course, what had John done with his life in the last decade? Not fucking much. Nothing that had lasted, anyway. He sighed and turned back to his contemplation of cooking-free dinner options for one. Maybe the sushi would be better this time after all. He dropped it in his basket.

*****

Greg gave John a one-armed hug at the door of the pub. "God, it's great to see you. Come on, I'll buy the first round."

They found a table in the corner and settled there with pints in hand. John had been in this pub once before; it was a boisterous spot full of locals decompressing from their days, small and cozy, and completely packed. It was the sort of place where everyone seemed to be catching up with friends. Which was the main reason he hadn't been back.

"I've got news," Greg said, barely containing his grin. "I'm going to be a grandfather." 

John nearly spewed his lager. "A grandfather? That's…"

"Well, step-grandfather, technically. Lori's son Scott and his wife told us at dinner the other night. Baby's due in July. Lori's over the moon about it." 

John shook his head, still shocked. "That's amazing. I… I suppose you're chuffed about it then?"

Greg raised his glass to his lips and took a sip before answering. "It's still a bit bizarre, you know? I don't even have kids of my own, so I never expected anyone to call me 'Grandpa.'"

John raised his glass to cover his grin. "Does that mean I can call you Grandpa?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "See what happens if you try. But enough about me. What have you been up to?"

"Not much, really. Got divorced, decided to move back to London to… start over." _Again._ He smiled into his lager.

"How'd you like Chelmsford?" 

"It was fine, at least at first. That's where Mary's from. Her parents were getting on in years, so she wanted to be close to them. I worked in a private practice there for nearly six years, and I enjoyed it. But it wasn't home by any stretch, and when we split up for good, I knew I couldn't stay." He took a drink and forced a smile. "I'm working A&E now, over at Queen Elizabeth. It's insane, but I like it."

"You always did prefer a bit of excitement." Greg winked at him. "I'm sorry it didn't work out with Mary, though. You seemed happy, before you moved away."

"I was, I think." John paused to take a sip of lager. "I don't know, really. Thought I was. Hindsight, right?"

Greg was silent for a moment. "Have you seen Sherlock since you got back?"

John stared into his pint glass again. "No." He ought to ask how Sherlock was, what he was doing, if he was all right – but no, that was a can of worms he'd rather leave unopened. "You still follow rugby?"

Greg's smile was one of understanding, and he nodded. "I do."

*****

John's phone vibrated in his pocket as he walked, and he pulled it out to glance at the screen. Text from Greg.

 _Busy right now?_

John stepped into the alcove of a shop, out of the rain, to tap out a response. _Off today. A bit early for a pint, isn't it?_

_I could use your opinion on something. Can you come to Moscow Road, near the Bayswater Tube station?_

John stared at the screen for three full seconds, breath caught in his throat. _Crime scene?_

_Yes. Can you come? Murder. Very messy._

John pursed his lips. He'd left this sort of thing behind him a decade ago, and he hadn't thought about in ages. Didn't Greg have people for this, people who had been trained in forensics and hired to do exactly this? Surely the opinion of a surgeon from A&E wasn't all that valuable.

But hell, he had nothing better going on. Maybe it would be interesting. He exhaled and considered. Maybe Greg would want to go get a pint later; it had been nearly a week since they'd last got together. Right. 

_Be there in twenty._

The crime scene was fairly easy to find, it turned out. John didn't recognize any of the officers who were running about, busying themselves with the task of sealing off the area. He had to wait for Greg to come over and vouch for him before he was let past the yellow tape. 

He felt awkward and out of place as he followed Greg down a winding alley and through a battered metal door into a dark, musty building. It seemed to be a storage facility of some kind, though it was empty now. Industrial caged lights hung from the high ceiling and the bare bulbs cast multi-faceted shadows as they walked across the dusty floor.

"Right through there," Greg said, pointing at a corridor beyond another door. "Four fucking murders in London today, and my usual forensics team is stuck at another one. They'll be here in half an hour, but we needed someone who could give us some information before the trail gets cold."

"Yeah, of course. I'm glad to help." 

"I owe you one. I'll be back in a few minutes; gotta make a quick phone call. They're expecting you, so just take a look and tell them whatever you can." 

He turned and walked away, already tapping at his mobile. John walked through the door and down the corridor, through an open doorway into a well-lit room. 

And froze, heart in his throat. The corpse of a woman was lying prone on the floor in a pool of blood, limbs unnaturally askew, and leaning over the corpse was a very familiar figure.

John closed his eyes, transported back in time for a brief, exhilarating, dizzying moment. 

_Shit._

"John, glad you could come." Sherlock didn't even look up at him; his gazed was fixed on the body. "I could use your opinion on this."

John remained in the doorway, unable to breathe. Sherlock looked remarkably like he had done years ago. There was a touch of grey at his temples, but otherwise his hair was still an unruly mop of dark curls. His face was more gaunt than John remembered, as if his lack of attention to the "vessel" was finally catching up with him, but the expression on his face as he studied the scene before him was... John swallowed.

"Sherlock." 

Sherlock looked up at that. "We're in a bit of a rush, if you don't mind." His eyes were exactly the same. Jesus.

"Right, of course." John took five steps forward and knelt next to the corpse, opposite Sherlock. He inhaled smoothly, steadying himself. Sherlock held out a pair of nitrile gloves and John pulled them on with a stiff nod of thanks. 

For Greg. He was doing this for Greg. And the next time he saw Greg, he would _kill_ him.

He'd seen horrific injuries in A&E, but he'd forgotten how grisly crime scenes could be. The victim appeared to be in her early twenties. There were bruises around her throat, though they were difficult to make out clearly, since she'd been nearly decapitated. 

"Cause of death?" Sherlock asked. 

John pursed his lips. "Strangulation, I hope." He pointed at the bruises on her throat, lifted her hands and examined her fingers and wrists, then leant down to examine her mouth. Her eyes stared back at him, glassy and lifeless. "There doesn't appear to have been much of a struggle." He lifted one arm and pushed her sleeve up. "Puncture marks here. Multiple, faded. And from the state of her skin and teeth, I'd say she was an addict." He glanced down at her clothes, which, while worn, seemed to be in order. "No obvious evidence of sexual assault immediately prior to death. Or of consensual sexual activity, for that matter." That was an issue for the technician performing the autopsy, but he was thinking aloud.

"You think she was strangled before the partial decapitation?"

John nodded. "She was probably already dead, or at least unconscious. Look how clean the cut is, no sign that her attacker had to hold her down through it."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You think there was only one?"

John hesitated and looked around the room. It was empty of furniture, but there were footprints visible on the floor. Some were sharper than others, but he couldn't be sure which belonged to Sherlock or to any of the officers on the scene, and which belonged to the killer. He looked at the body again. 

"The bruises are concentrated on the upper half of her body. If there had been another person involved, they would likely have held her feet. One attacker could have sat on her, held her down and strangled her. Unless…" He paused and examined her head more closely. "Well, I was thinking that a second attacker could have held her head still while the other—" he made a slashing motion with one hand a few inches above her throat. "But no, there aren't any marks or bruising there either."

He looked up, expecting to be criticized, told what he'd missed, but Sherlock simply smiled at him. "It's good to see you."

John blinked, completely taken aback. This was hardly the place for a reunion, but then, it was _Sherlock_. "Yes, same, I suppose. Look, is there anything else you need me for?"

Sherlock's smile faded. "No, I suppose not."

"Right." John stood and stripped off the gloves. "I hope that was of some use. Best of luck with this case."

Sherlock stood. "Aren't you going to stay and help?"

John gave him a tight smile. "No. Not my area, Sherlock. Not anymore." 

Sherlock's lips twisted slightly. "Yes, of course. Well, thank you."

John stared at him. He could count the number of times Sherlock had ever voluntarily thanked someone on the fingers of one hand. "You're welcome." He paused a moment more, words poised on his lips, but he swallowed them down. No, better to leave it like this. He turned and left the room.

He found Greg the moment he got outside, and shot him a murderous look. Greg winced and crossed to where John was standing, a good distance from the other officers.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John spat. "You could have at least given me a warning."

"Would you have come if I had?" 

John snorted. "Not the point."

Greg ran a hand through his hair and groaned. "Look, I know it was a shitty thing to do, but he's been begging me to call you in ever since I told him you were back in town."

John's eyes widened. "It was _his_ idea?"

"Yes. And I know you're still pissed off at him, but after all these years, couldn't you just, I don't know—"

"What, let it go?" John shook his head. "He lied to me, Greg. He let me think he was dead for two fucking years. Me, his best friend – or so I thought. And then he just shows up one day and thinks we can pick up where we left off, and _I'm_ the one who's being unreasonable?"

"John—"

"No, I'm sorry, but no." He pressed his hands over his face and exhaled. His emotions had risen so quickly that it was shocking. How was it possible that Sherlock still had such a hold on him after all this time?

Greg groaned. "I'm sorry, you're right. I should've said something, I just…" He shrugged. "He's changed a lot, you know. He's not nearly as much of a dick as he was back then. And all he has is the work, really. The look on his face when I told him I'd seen you, you've no idea. I suppose I thought… I don't know."

John's gut twisted. He'd wondered about Sherlock, of course. It had been nearly a decade since John had severed their friendship, and it was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. But he had to do it; he couldn't let go of the anger and betrayal he'd felt. If he'd welcomed Sherlock back with open arms, what further horrific things might have happened? No – John had made his choice, and it was undoubtedly the right one.

"I can't, all right? I don't doubt that he's changed, even for the better, but…" He shook his head.

Greg sighed. "I'm sorry, John, I really am."

John could only shrug in response.

"You all right?"

"Yeah. I reckoned I'd run into him at some point, anyway." And honestly, he should have been suspicious. If he were going to bump into Sherlock anywhere in London, the odds were quite high it would happen at a crime scene, especially at one supervised by Greg Lestrade. And for fuck's sake, why would it even make sense that Greg would need John at a crime scene? He winced. "I'm being an idiot, sorry."

Greg's expression was sympathetic. "No, you're not. You're just responding to Sherlock like every normal person does."

John's heart clenched slightly, but he managed to smile. "I suppose."

"Want to get a pint this weekend?"

John nodded. "Yeah, I really would."

Greg clapped him on the shoulder and turned back toward the building. John stood there a minute more before heading back to the Tube station. 

Behind him, Greg paused to watch him disappear around the corner, and sighed.

*****


	2. Chapter 2

The first text came at two in the fucking morning. John squinted at the phone on the nightstand, wondering if he'd dreamed that little trilling sound. But no, a glance at the projection on the ceiling confirmed it. 

_You were correct. Killer strangled her. –SH_

John groaned and rolled over. The trilling sound repeated, and he turned his head to look at the ceiling again.

_Apparently didn't have a good enough knife for full decapitation. Fled the scene. -SH_

John closed his eyes and had nearly drifted off before: _trrrrrrrllll_. He looked up.

_Police found him covered in her blood. Idiot. –SH_

"What the fuck?" John mumbled as he rubbed his eyes. He'd expressed zero interest in the case and had made it clear he wasn't going to get involved. Why Sherlock was texting him to keep him updated on the outcome was anyone's guess. Two minutes later, the phone trilled yet again.

_It was good to see you again. –SH_

John groaned and reached over to the nightstand to silence the phone, then turned it face-down for the rest of the night.

*****

When he checked his phone on his lunch break, there were seven texts waiting for him, spaced exactly half an hour apart.

_Are you at work? –SH_

_New case, could use your input. –SH_

_Kidnapped plastic surgeon, apparently. –SH_

_Not the sort of thing that would usually interest me, but I thought you might enjoy it. –SH_

_Or perhaps you no longer despise elective plastic surgery? If this is the case, ignore the previous four texts. –SH_

_Never mind. Disgruntled former patient, as suspected. –SH_

_If interested in dinner, text when your shift ends. –SH_

John switched off his phone and shook his head, incredulous.

*****

"You gave him my number, didn't you?"

" _What? I've no idea what you're talking about._ "

"I'm talking about Sherlock, Greg. You gave him my mobile number. It had to have been you; no one else who knows the both of us has it."

Greg groaned and John could almost picture the look on his face. " _I didn't give it to him, I swear. He probably had Mycroft get it for him. You know how those two are._ "

"Fuck." John pressed a hand over his eyes. "He's texting me. Constantly."

" _So tell him to stop._ "

John hesitated, pressed his lips together. "It's not that simple. And frankly, I'd rather not respond at all. You'd think he'd get the fucking message."

" _He's changed, John, but not that much. He won't get the message until you actually tell him to fuck off._ "

"Right." John sighed. 

" _Which I suspect you'd already have done, if you really wanted him to stop._ "

"Oh, for fuck's sake. I don't want to be friends with him. I don't want him in my life. I want him to leave me the fuck alone." 

" _It'd just take one text, then. Or were you hoping I would do it for you? You could write him a note and I could pass it to him in class, that sort of thing._ " John could hear the barely contained smirk in his voice.

"Good night, Greg." 

John flopped back on his own bed and glowered at the ceiling. His phone trilled. He didn't look at it. 

*****

A week later, John was still receiving a dozen texts a day. Some were case-related: _Missing dog remains. Am almost bored enough to accept. –SH_. Others were a clear cry for attention: _BORED. Respond or I shall be forced to take extreme measures. –SH_. Still others were utterly random: _Favorite cheese? It's for a case. –SH_

He had ignored them all. Greg's advice still tugged at the back of his thoughts, and his reluctance to follow it was more than a bit disturbing. He could, he knew, cut this odd barrage of texts off with a single response, but as time went on, he found he was actually starting to look forward to that little trilling sound. He had few friends here and his work schedule was mad, and he had little to distract him from his loneliness except these odd texts from Sherlock Holmes.

"It's been a decade," Greg said over a pint two weeks after the crime scene incident. "That's a long time to hold a grudge."

John felt like banging his forehead on the table. "It's not a grudge. I made a decision to cut him out of my life, for my own sanity, and that's that. He and I cannot be friends. It's just not going to happen."

"And that's nothing like a grudge, is it?" Greg's eyebrows rose. "You don't have to be friends. Just talk to him. Do it for my sake, if nothing else. He's driving me mad."

John took a drink of lager. "I'm sorry you've been sucked into this."

"Sherlock is a friend of mine, John." 

John turned to look at him, surprised. "A what?"

"A friend. I've known him for more than fifteen years. Barely a week goes by that I don't talk to him."

"What are you saying?"

Greg sighed. "I wish you'd give him a chance, is all. He's a good man, John. You know that he did what he did to protect you."

"Yes, but—"

"I just want you to think about it. Please."

John pressed a hand against his forehead. Perhaps he was being a tiny bit unreasonable. "Fine. I'll think about it."

"Good," Greg said, raising his glass. "Cheers to that. Now, can we change the fucking subject?"

John managed a smile. "England vs. Scotland this weekend. You watching it?"

Greg grinned. "Fuck, yes."

*****

One week later, when his mobile trilled in the middle of the night – _It was the gardener, as suspected. Dinner? -SH_ \-- John plucked his phone from the nightstand and, before he lost his nerve, tapped out a response: _Friday, 9:00. Barshu. You're buying._

The response was immediate: _Of course. See you then. –SH_

John set the mobile back on the nightstand, and hoped he hadn't just made a huge mistake.

*****

John's stomach was in knots the entire day of his dinner with Sherlock. He'd almost canceled four times in the last 48 hours, but each time he'd held off. He was just old-fashioned enough to find the idea of canceling by text horrifically rude, and he knew from past experience that any attempt to ring Sherlock and lie to him over the phone would fail spectacularly. 

So here he was, in a taxi on his way to have dinner with Sherlock, a decade after insisting he never wanted to speak to him again. He still would rather not, but Sherlock's persistent annoying texts had finally worn down John's resistance to the point that he reckoned he had little to lose. At worst, the evening would be stiff and awkward, and then Sherlock would finally leave him alone. At best, they'd have a good evening together and… John had no idea what that would mean. 

Traffic was mad, and John drummed his fingers against the seat in frustration. He was sweating, which was utterly ridiculous for February. Why it had taken him half an hour to decide what to wear was still a mystery. He usually didn't care, but this restaurant was a formal sort of place, and it was London, after all. He'd tried very hard to walk the line between demonstrating that he knew how to dress for dinner and looking as if he'd tried too hard. Sherlock would notice, of course, and would read a dozen things into anything he wore. John hoped he'd relaxed a bit about making such deductions public. 

The taxi finally pulled up in front of the restaurant. John paid the driver and swore under his breath when he glanced at his phone: five minutes late. He despised being late, as a rule. Sherlock would probably read something into that as well.

Sherlock was seated at a table in the corner, glass of wine untouched in front of him, and scanning the screen of his phone. John's stomach lurched again at the sight of him. His clothes were just as perfectly tailored as John remembered, and his insane mop of hair had been combed back into something shockingly presentable. He looked perfectly in his element, not at all like a half-mad genius who'd single-handedly ruined John's life a decade ago. _Damn_ him.

Sherlock looked up and smiled, and John felt an odd twinge in his chest. 

"Sherlock," John said as he crossed the last few feet to the table. He held out a hand, and Sherlock stood and took it, gave it a firm, polite squeeze before releasing him and sitting again.

"John. Thanks for coming tonight."

John sat and looked around the restaurant, suddenly needing a bit of space before he could look directly at Sherlock. "This is lovely. I've never been here, but the reviews were spectacular." 

"Neither have I. Take-away is the most I usually have time for." 

John turned to look at him at that. "So that hasn't changed."

Sherlock smiled. "I don't currently have someone nagging me to eat, but otherwise, I suppose not."

John's lips quirked into a small smile. "I didn't nag; I reminded. And only every few days at that."

"And I appreciated it more than you know." A waiter appeared by their table before John could respond, and Sherlock picked up a menu and scanned it. "I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine. No doubt your tastes have changed, but you used to prefer this sort of dry Bordeaux blanc."

"It always went well with the take-away." The waiter gave John an odd look as he filled his glass, but John didn't care. He was suddenly, unexpectedly glad he'd decided to come tonight. Maybe Greg had a point. It had been a decade, after all. They'd both changed. Perhaps they didn't have to avoid each other completely. 

"How is Mary?" Sherlock asked once the waiter had gone.

"No idea. We're divorced, you know."

"I know. I was just asking to be polite." Sherlock's gaze was still fixed on the menu.

John plucked his own menu from the table. "You know, asking a recently divorced person about the well-being of his ex-wife is rather impolite."

Sherlock's jaw clenched slightly. "I meant no offense, I—" 

"Joking, Sherlock." John smiled at him. "She's fine, as far as I know. Far happier without me underfoot, I'm sure."

Sherlock set the menu down and pressed his lips together. His fingers clenched and unclenched, and he seemed to be trying very hard not to look at John.

John sighed. "Go on, then."

"Go on what?"

"I know you want to do it. Just get it over with."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Do what?"

"Deduce the reason for my failed marriage from, I don't know, the state of my necktie."

There was a pause, and Sherlock's expression hardened. "Is that really what you think of me?"

John opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated for a moment. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for, wasn't it?"

The corners of Sherlock's lips turned up, though the movement seemed forced. "It does sound like something I would have done, once. But I no longer inflict my deductions on people. So few appreciate it. Now I only do so when specifically asked."

John stared back at him for a moment before returning his attention to the menu. The waiter reappeared and took their orders, and then there was no distraction, no excuse for avoiding interaction.

"All right, then. I'm asking." John raised his wine glass to his lips.

"Asking what?"

"Deduce whatever you like. Do your worst."

Sherlock looked surprised. "Really?"

John swallowed, nodded his head. "You can't possibly tell me something I've not heard, either from Mary or my therapist." 

Sherlock looked uncertain for a second more, but the moment he decided to proceed was incredibly clear. His focus sharpened, his eyes darted over John's face and torso, and John felt like he'd been transported back in time. 

"You were the one who ended it, but only after she'd left you and come back a few times. There was no infidelity – you wouldn't do that, far too loyal, and you wouldn't stand for it, either, so you wouldn't have taken her back if she'd cheated on you. You moved to London shortly before the holidays, which says you wanted a clean break, to make a fresh start, that you weren't sentimental about it at all. And you, you're sentimentality personified. If she'd left you, you would have stayed, hoping you could make it work, as you did each of the previous times she left. So no, the last time, you left her. Perhaps it was over for you long before she left the first time, but you kept holding onto the marriage because you didn't want to admit you'd failed at it."

John exhaled and picked up his wine glass. He'd forgotten how it felt to be the center of Sherlock's extremely intense attention. It was a bit like that dream where he suddenly realized he was naked in public. "Go on."

"You wonder now if you ever loved her in the first place, though you did, obviously. You're far too much of an idealist to marry someone you weren't in love with. But the love faded quickly, perhaps because you left London and were unhappy with your work, or with the place where you lived, or perhaps because you had unfinished business here." Sherlock's gaze broke away from John's and trailed down over his chest before settling on John's hands. "At any rate, the relationship itself wasn't strong enough to sustain your happiness, and when you grew unhappy, so did she. Perhaps her unhappiness added to your own. Perhaps she took out her frustrations on you. And though you are faithful, loyal, and committed to the people you love, there is only so much you'll take before you decide you're finished. So you ended it." 

John nodded and cleared his throat, and stared into his wine glass. Sherlock paused for a moment before continuing.

"Despite returning to London a few months ago with no job, no marriage, and no friends to speak of, you're clearly happier now than you've been in years. Everything about the way you're dressed tonight and the way you carry yourself implies you're looking ahead, that you're optimistic about the future. That tie, for God's sake – no one even remotely depressed about his life would wear such a color around his neck, and certainly not with that shirt."

John had to bite his lip to keep himself from smiling.

"You're relieved that part of your life is behind you, as well as the utterly horrible therapist in Chelmsford, whom you were glad to be shot of. You haven't tried to find a new one in London yet, and I agree that you don't need one. There's nothing wrong with you. You simply married the wrong person, for the wrong reasons, right as they seemed at the time. You now think the marriage was a mistake, and you hate making mistakes. But you are one who always looks for the lesson in your mistakes, and for that I have always admired you." 

John looked up again, surprised. Sherlock's eyes were startlingly clear, and his face was unusually kind. 

"I am sorry, John. For the distress I caused you, for the way I came back to you, and for the way we left things. It was…" He paused and pressed his lips together. 

"I know. So am I." John exhaled and smiled at him. "That was amazing, you know."

Sherlock stared at him for a full second before his face registered recognition of what John had said. "Was it?"

"Of course it was. And unbelievably accurate. Not that I expected any less."

"Well, thank you." Sherlock's cheeks tinted, and it occurred to John that he probably didn't hear compliments like that very often these days. 

"Enough about my pathetic life," John said, raising his wine glass again. "Tell me what you've been up to." 

Sherlock launched into a highly detailed discussion of cases he'd solved over the last several years and John settled in to listen. Their food arrived and Sherlock barely touched his own, instead continuing to weave a spell that John found difficult to shake. When they finally asked for the bill, it was an hour later than John would have guessed, so quickly the time had flown.

"Should we share a taxi?" Sherlock asked as they stood out on the kerb in front of the restaurant a quarter of an hour later. 

"Are we going the same direction?" John asked. "My flat's not far from Paddington Station."

"Close enough," Sherlock replied, already raising his hand in the air. 

The taxi stopped at John's address far sooner than he would have liked, and he found himself regretting that the evening was over. That was a surprise, and one he hadn't prepared himself for. 

He opened the door and turned back to Sherlock. "Thank you for dinner. I had… it was fun, it really was."

Sherlock's smile was completely genuine. "Want to do this again in a week or so?"

John hesitated. In spite of his initial knee-jerk response of _no_ , he actually had enjoyed himself tonight. As long as he kept Sherlock at arm's length, there was no reason not to continue. They lived in the same city, large as it was, and they had common friends and a history together. Sherlock was not the same person who'd deceived John so horribly a decade ago; he was older, more thoughtful, and he so clearly regretted the pain he'd caused John. 

And despite the current situation, John had never been one to hold grudges. Maybe it was finally time to let this one go and see what became of it. 

"Yeah, that'd be great. You pick the restaurant next time."

"I will." Sherlock's gaze bore into him. 

"Right. Well." John held out his hand and Sherlock took it, and gave it a firm shake that lasted a second or two longer than was technically proper before releasing it again.

John closed the door of the taxi and gave it a curt wave as it pulled away. He could make out the silhouette of Sherlock in the back, slightly lit now by the glow of his phone. John grinned as he turned to unlock his door, and something blossomed inside his chest, something he couldn't quite pin down. Relief, perhaps. It did feel like a weight had been lifted. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd felt this happy in years. 

In retrospect, that ought to have worried him.

*****


	3. Chapter 3

The barrage of texts continued after the dinner meeting, though the frequency had subsided somewhat. John replied when it seemed necessary, but generally just read the texts and said nothing in response. He spent all of Sunday morning sitting in a chair in his flat, drinking coffee, reading the news on his sheet tablet, and receiving random texts from Sherlock every ten minutes. 

_New café around the corner is suspiciously busy. Might investigate. –SH_

_Possible money-laundering scheme. –SH_

_Coffee isn't good enough to warrant queues out the front door on a Sunday morning. –SH_

_May keep one-cup coffee maker from Philip after all. –SH_

John considered texting back to ask who Philip was, but decided against it. 

_Am out of clean slides. Trying to decide if easier to wash or purchase new ones. –SH_

To which John replied: _Are any shops that sell slides open on Sunday mornings?_

Thirty minutes later: _Apparently not. Few shops open Sunday mornings, as it turns out. –SH_

John could only shake his head in bewilderment. How Sherlock had survived into his early forties was beyond John's comprehension.

_What type of dog would you prefer for a pet? –SH_

John's eyebrows rose considerably, but he resisted replying.

_Asking entirely hypothetically, of course. –SH_

_Could possibly train dog for crime scene use. –SH_

It was almost as if he was back in the flat on Baker Street, tuning out while Sherlock ranted on about some case or another. Just as it was back then, it seemed irrelevant whether or not John was actually listening. Sherlock seemed pleased simply to know he was there.

*****

"You did, seriously?" Greg gaped at John as he handed him a pint. "I knew you wouldn't tell him to fuck off, but I didn't expect you'd agree to spend any time with him."

John took a sip from his glass and shrugged. "It was fine. It was even fun, as strange as that may seem."

Greg settled onto a bar stool next to John. "I'm not sure I've ever described anything I've done with Sherlock as _fun_." 

John couldn't help but laugh at that. "It was, though. We had dinner, and he even ate, to my amazement. I have to admit you were right about him. He really has changed."

"I still want to punch him every now and then, but yeah, he has." 

"I suppose it's seemed more gradual to you than it does to me."

"Yeah." Greg took a long drink, and then pursed his lips, his expression suddenly serious. "I never told you, but that year after you left was pretty fucking miserable. He went off the deep end for a while there. Everyone who knew him was worried. I think he never expected you would really leave him, you know?"

John clenched his jaw. He'd spent rather a lot of time thinking about this topic in the past week. He was reluctant to feel any guilt over having cut Sherlock out of his life, considering what Sherlock had put him through. But he'd never considered that others might have to pick up the pieces after he'd left. Sherlock had done just fine on his own during the two years he'd pretended to be dead, after all. John had assumed he would just continue on without John in his life. 

"He texted me constantly, at all hours of the day and night, desperate for interesting cases. I think he even broke down and worked for his brother for a few months. I was worried he'd get himself back into trouble. I don't think he did, but… you know."

"Yeah," was all John managed to say. 

"There was a group of us who took it in turns to keep an eye on him, make sure we knew what he was up to. I thought about calling you a lot that year, hoping you'd… I don't know. Whatever happened between the two of you was none of my business."

"Sounds like Sherlock made it your business." John sighed. "I'm sorry you felt like you had to take care of him."

"Someone had to." Greg's words were slightly clipped, and John wondered if Greg had been angry with him, if he resented John for leaving.

John took a good long drink from his pint glass. He wasn't going to feel guilty about this. Sherlock had abandoned him first, in the cruelest possible way. Greg had made his own choices, as had John, and John was not going to feel responsible for anything Sherlock had done. Not anymore.

"He did move on, eventually. More than I ever expected him to." Greg's glass was nearly empty now, as was John's. "Still, I'm glad you two have called a truce. It'd be nice not to have to wrangle him at crime scenes anymore."

John turned to look at him. "Oh, no. No, no, it's not like that. I'm not planning to start helping him with cases again. At best we'll be casual… friends." He accentuated the last word with a wave of his hand.

Greg shot him a skeptical look. "Really?"

"Yes."

"All right."

"I'm serious. Down that path lies nothing but trouble. I'm far too old to start running down dark alleys after Sherlock Holmes again."

"I've no doubt." 

"It's been ten years. More than, really. It's not as if we can just pick up where we left off." 

"Of course." 

"We'll just be friends. Perhaps not even that. Just friendly sorts of acquaintances."

"Uh-huh." Greg nodded, but looked utterly unconvinced.

"Definitely not mates. Nothing like that." 

Greg brought his pint glass to his lips, but it didn't quite cover his smirk. "So when are you meeting him again?"

John frowned into his beer. "Tomorrow night." 

"Right." Greg grinned. "You do know that tomorrow is—" 

John rolled his eyes and cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I'll get another round, shall I?" 

*****

The restaurant was lovely, a small contemporary Italian spot in an Edwardian building on the edge of Notting Hill. It had a half dozen tables and the waitstaff seemed comprised of actual Italians, which always gave John hope for a good meal.

A young woman with closely cropped hair and a heart-shaped face showed them to their table and handed them menus. She gave them a sweet smile before walking away.

John had been nervous during the taxi ride over; the realization that he'd been looking forward to the evening, to seeing Sherlock again, was unsettling. No matter how many times he'd told himself that this was just a casual meeting of old friends, that it meant nothing, he knew that it wasn't. He honestly wasn't sure what he wanted. Was he trying to recapture the friendship they'd shared a decade ago, as one sometimes did with old school friends rediscovered online, or was he hoping they'd carve out a new way to be friends now, after everything that had gone wrong between them? What Sherlock wanted was anyone's guess.

"Hmmm," Sherlock said, frowning at the menu.

John picked his up and looked over it: a list of dishes, most of it printed in Italian, with English translations where necessary. It appeared to be a set menu, so there was little to do other than to choose between the meat and vegetarian options. 

A set menu on a week night? John looked up from his contemplation of the menu to glance around the restaurant. All of the tables were set for two, and each was occupied by a pair of people John would have called a couple, if he didn't know better than to make such assumptions. 

The server reappeared with two glasses of champagne and asked them if they had any questions about the menu. John was slightly surprised to learn that they both had to choose the exact same courses, though it wasn't a problem; neither of them had become vegetarians in the last decade. John handed the server their menus and she nodded and walked away, hips swaying under a short black skirt. He smiled: once upon a time, he would've asked for her number along with the check. 

And once upon a time, Sherlock would have rolled his eyes and then explained to John that she obviously had a large Italian boyfriend, and that John shouldn't bother. He smiled and looked over at Sherlock, and was startled to see that Sherlock's expression was one of embarrassment. John frowned and picked up his glass of champagne. He couldn't recall ever seeing Sherlock embarrassed before. What could possibly have caused him to -- _oh_. 

Restaurant full of couples, special set menu. How had John not realized it sooner?

"John, I…" Sherlock began.

"It's Valentine's Day." John pressed his lips together to keep himself from laughing. "You had no idea?"

Sherlock downed half of his champagne. "I didn't."

"I forgot as well." John looked around the restaurant, only now seeing the obvious overly romantic décor. "Well, I had no idea I was going on a date tonight. I'd have worn a nicer tie."

Sherlock looked mortified. "I didn't mean to imply anything."

"I'm joking, Sherlock." John couldn't help grinning now. "It's fine. I suppose it's fitting, in a way."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "How so?"

"Everyone always thought we were shagging anyway. It's like old times." He took a sip of champagne. "I'm sure it will be a lovely dinner. We might as well enjoy it."

Sherlock stared back at him. "It doesn't bother you?"

"No. Why should it?"

"It always bothered you before."

John shrugged. "I'm almost fifty years old, Sherlock. I doubt anyone here is all that concerned with speculation about my love life, or lack thereof."

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something more, but the server returned just then with a plate on which there was poised a tiny tower of terrines. And two forks.

"Apparently we're meant to share," John said, picking up one of the forks and winking at Sherlock. "How romantic." 

Sherlock's embarrassment had abated somewhat, but he still seemed rather uncomfortable. "I suppose the assumption is that since we're planning on exchanging bodily fluids later, we won't mind any cross-contamination with saliva at this point in the evening."

John had, unfortunately, just put a bite of the terrine into his mouth. He managed to swallow it before erupting into quiet laughter. The situation was ridiculous, and it ought to have unsettled him, but for some reason, it didn't. It amused him to no end that after all these years, it was now Sherlock who seemed uncomfortable with the assumption that they were a couple, rather than John.

There were wines paired with each course, and the theme of sharing single plates of food continued. Sherlock had seemed squeamish about this at first, but when John showed no signs of being uncomfortable, he seemed to relax. An hour later, they'd finished half the courses and consumed rather a lot of wine, and John realized he was having more fun than he'd had in quite a while. Sherlock with several drinks in him was a far better conversationalist than he was otherwise, and John was enjoying it all immensely.

"And he thought, he _honestly_ thought I'd—" Sherlock's phone trilled and he plucked it from his pocket. His eyes narrowed immediately when he glanced at the screen. "It's Lestrade."

"Case?" John's phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to take a look.

_Sorry to interrupt. Unless you were looking for a way out, in which case, you're welcome._

John shoved his phone back in his pocket. 

"Yes," Sherlock replied, the expression on his face indicating he was already thinking about whatever Greg had in store for him. "He's got a lead on something I worked on a few months ago. We thought the trail had gone cold, but he's found the flat the killer was hiding out in."

"Full of evidence, I suppose."

"Yes."

"Lots of intriguing clues for you to think about and put together."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, his eyes almost sparkling now.

John lowered his voice to a seductive whisper. "And just possibly, you'll find the killer's trail again."

Sherlock turned to look at him and nodded.

"What are you waiting for, then? Go. I'll get the check."

Sherlock pushed his seat back immediately, then paused, as if torn. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, of course."

"You're not angry?"

John smiled. "Why would I be? This is far more important than dinner. If it makes you feel any better, I'll stay here and eat your share. I'm paying for it either way." Sherlock still looked hesitant, and John grinned at him. "Go, you tosser. Ring me up once you've caught the killer and we'll go get a drink to celebrate."

Sherlock exhaled and then smiled. "I will." He stood and straightened his jacket, and left.

Everyone in the small dining room looked up as he left, and the server rushed over to their table. "Is everything all right?" 

John smiled at her. "He's on call tonight."

"Ah, of course." She looked relieved. "Well, sorry you must spend your Valentine's evening alone in this way."

"Not to worry. He'll make it up to me later." John gave her a conspiratorial wink, and she laughed.

"Shall I bring the next course or would you prefer to take it home with you?"

"No reason to ruin an otherwise fantastic meal," John replied. "Bring it on and I'll do my best. And I'll have a bit more of that Chablis, while you're at it."

It was the best not-a-date he'd been on in years. Within half an hour, Sherlock began texting him all the details of what he'd found, and John enjoyed each and every one of them. 

_Classic serial killer behavior. He wants to be caught. –SH_

_He kept immaculate records. –SH_

_Early 30s, well-educated, definitely disturbed. –SH_ To which John couldn't help replying, _No shit._

 _Classic serial killer clipping wall. He's watched too many films. –SH_ Accompanied by a photo of a wall papered with newspaper clippings. 

_You'd love this one. –SH_

And a single text from Greg: _Is Sherlock drunk?_

John laughed as he tapped out a reply. _A bit. Go easy on him, yeah?_

He had the braised beef main course all to himself, and he didn't mind one bit. The chocolate dessert was a bit over the top, but the server took good care of him and kept his wine glass full, and it was by far the best Valentine's Day he'd had in, well, ever. And he'd spent half of it with Sherlock. Fancy that.

*****


	4. Chapter 4

*****

John stared up at the brass numbers on the door: 221B. Jesus, it was like going back in time. He rang the buzzer.

Two minutes later, he rang it again. The door opened and a young woman stared out at him. Her hair was black, her clothes were black, and her eyes were lined in thick black makeup, but her face was as pale as a ghost. She looked like a vampire. 

John realized he was gaping at her and forced a smile. "Hi. Is Sherlock in? He's expecting me."

She gave him a long, sour look before stepping back into the foyer. 

He walked through the door and looked around. "God, this place hasn't changed a bit."

"Upstairs." Her gaze remained intensely fixed on John even as she tilted her head to indicate that John should go up.

"Right," John said. "Thanks." He climbed the stairs, and paused at the top to look back down. She stood at the bottom, still staring up at him with narrowed eyes. He turned to knock on the door.

It opened almost instantly. Sherlock waved him in and then dashed off to the kitchen, looking a bit frazzled.

John shed his coat and looked around. The flat was very much the way he remembered it; even the arrangement of the furniture was the same, though the pieces themselves were different. The wallpaper was gone, replaced now by a simple coat of neutral paint, and there was a rather impressive television in the far corner. There was still a fair amount of clutter, though it seemed to be more organized than John remembered from his days in the flat.

"God, this is fantastic. I can't believe you still live here, to be honest. When you texted me the address, I was surprised, to say the least."

Sherlock emerged from the kitchen with two glasses, each of which was filled with ice cubes suspended in a reddish-orange liquid. He handed one to John. "Why would I ever want to live anywhere else? It has all the space I require, and Mrs. Hudson hasn't raised the rent in half a decade."

John eyed his drink suspiciously. Sherlock stared back at him, clearly waiting for him to try it. "Cheers," John said and took a polite sip. It was cloyingly sweet – some sort of mixed drink involving cranberry juice, apparently – but not undrinkable. He nodded his approval. Sherlock seemed to exhale in relief, and gestured to the chairs in the sitting room.

"So does Mrs. Hudson still own the building?" John asked as he settled into the closest chair.

Sherlock tried his own drink and grimaced. "Is this too sweet for you? I found the recipe online. God, it's horrific. You don't like sweet things, do you?"

"It's not that bad." John smiled, oddly touched that Sherlock had gone so far out of his comfort zone for this. Trying new things was not something he did lightly. Or at least, it had been that way. Maybe this was fairly normal for him now. "For the record, I'm perfectly happy with beer and wine. Surely you know that from the time we were flatmates."

"Things change." Sherlock shrugged and settled into the opposite chair.

"Speaking of, who was the woman who met me at the door?"

"Ah yes, that's Ella. She's Mrs. Hudson's niece's daughter, or something. A relative, at any rate. Mrs. Hudson's sister hasn't been well, and she decided to go stay with her until she's well again. Or until she dies, which seems far more likely in my opinion." 

John frowned, and Sherlock seemed to realize his _faux pas_.

"The sister, not Mrs. Hudson. She's just as spry as ever. At any rate, Ella is minding her flat while she's gone." 

"She seems… nice." John took a polite drink and forced himself not to make a face.

"Does she?" Sherlock frowned. "She just scowls suspiciously at me."

"Not your housekeeper, then?" John grinned.

"Definitely not." Sherlock frowned into his glass once more before standing and carrying it to the kitchen. John heard a splash as the drink was apparently dumped into the sink. "I've a bottle of wine, if you prefer."

"Sounds fantastic." John set his drink down, relieved. He looked around the room while Sherlock clattered about in the kitchen. 

He'd been a bit unnerved by the thought of coming here again. He hadn't heard from Sherlock at all in the two days following the Valentine's Day incident; considering that he usually received half a dozen texts a day, that had worried him. When Sherlock finally did text him, it was a single word: _Drinks? –SH_

John had responded immediately, but it was another full day before Sherlock replied: _Saturday night, my flat, 8:00. –SH_

John waited a good half hour, until he was certain no further information was coming, before texting back. _Fine. Address?_

The response had been immediate: _221B Baker Street_.

He supposed it shouldn't have surprised him that Sherlock would still live here, in this flat that held so many memories. John hadn't been here himself in nearly twelve years. He'd moved out shortly after Sherlock's "death" and he hadn't set foot inside since. He wondered if Sherlock had simply waited for it to become available again or if Mrs. Hudson had kept the flat for him all along. 

There was a distinct _pop_ from the kitchen, the sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle. John stood and crossed to the fireplace. The old skull was still on the mantel, but there were other items too, unfamiliar things: an intricately-formed glass tree with swirling, colorful limbs, a pewter ashtray decorated with skulls, and several framed photographs. The first was of a much younger Sherlock standing next to a woman who could only be his mother. Her hair was styled in a short grey bob and she had the same high cheekbones as Sherlock, though her expression reminded John sharply of Mycroft. John smiled: he'd never seen photographs of Sherlock from the time before John had met him. He looked to be in his early twenties when this was one taken. His hair was even more outrageously unkempt than John had ever seen it, and the expression he wore was one of sheer disdain.

John's gaze moved to the next photo, this one of Mycroft standing next to an elegantly-dressed woman. His hand rested lightly at her waist and she was smiling, though he was not. He looked slightly older in the photo than John remembered him. Was this a wife or a girlfriend? John heard Sherlock's footsteps moving back into the sitting room, and he was just about to ask Sherlock about the picture when the third framed photo caught his attention. He stepped closer, picked it up, and stared at it. It was a photo of Sherlock, and it appeared to have been taken in the last few years. Standing next to him was a man – a man who had an arm draped rather possessively around Sherlock's shoulders. John blinked. The man didn't look familiar at all; it was no one they'd both known. The man was startlingly good-looking, with sandy hair that was rakishly swept back from his face. He was wearing a tight white t-shirt that made him look impossibly fit, and he was smiling at the camera. Sherlock looked more quietly pleased, but it was clear he was happy in this photo.

"Wine?" John turned to see Sherlock holding out a glass.

"Thanks." John took the offered glass before replacing the photo on the shelf. "I'm being a bit nosy, aren't I?"

Sherlock gave him an odd look. "If I didn't want people to look at these things, I'd hide them before inviting anyone over."

John smiled. "Yes, I suppose so." He wanted to ask about the man in the photograph, but wasn't sure exactly what to say. He held his wine glass by the stem and swirled it.

"That's Philip," Sherlock said after a long moment. 

"Philip," John repeated, glancing at the photo again. "A friend of yours?"

"Yes. Well, _was_ a friend, I should say."

John frowned. "Did something happen to him?"

"No. I don't think so, at least. We split up almost a year ago, and I haven't spoken with him since." 

It took a full second for the words to be processed in John's brain, and even then he wasn't certain he had heard them correctly. "He was your… Right, sorry." 

He stared at the photograph again and tried valiantly not to blush, but there was nothing for it. Sherlock had had a boyfriend, a very good-looking and fit one at that. Sherlock. A _boyfriend_. Jesus.

Sherlock cleared his throat after a moment and John turned to look at him. "Sorry, I'm just… surprised." 

"Why does it surprise you?"

John swirled his wine glass yet again and brought it to his nose, stalling for time. "I was under the impression that you were… that you weren't…" God, he had no idea how to say this in a way that didn't make him seem like a complete wanker.

"Gay?"

"No, I knew you were gay. Well, I mean, I reckoned that if you were interested in romantic relationships at all, you'd probably lean that direction. But I didn't think you were. Interested, I mean." His cheeks heated again, damn them. He took a large drink of wine and hoped his discomfort wasn't too obvious. 

"You're upset." 

John winced. Everything was obvious to Sherlock, of course. "No, no, of course not." He tried to smile, but was certain it came out as more of a grimace. "I'm not upset. I told you, I'm surprised."

Sherlock's gaze was nearly a physical force. "No, you're not surprised. You're obviously upset. Shall I list all of the indicators?"

"God, no, just. Just leave it, please." John felt a spike of anger now, inexplicably. "I'm sorry, I've no idea why this caught me off-guard. It's none of my business, really. I'll be fine, just..." He waved his hand in the air in front of him. "Is this merlot? I've always liked merlot."

Sherlock exhaled and brought his wine glass to his lips. The tension in the room was suddenly palpable. "Do you want to ask about him?"

"God, no. Of course not." 

But _fuck_ , he did, he really did. He had a thousand questions, everything from _how did you meet him?_ to _did he mind the body parts in the fridge?_ to _did he fuck you on that sofa?_ , and God, no, that – he really shouldn't be thinking about things like that. But that photo spoke of something more than a fling, more than an experiment. It spoke of a deep friendship, of affection and sex and maybe even love.

John clenched his jaw. "How long were you together?"

"Almost two years." Sherlock still stared at him, and something about it made John feel raw.

"Two years, that's…" Longer than he and Sherlock had been friends, before Sherlock's disappearance. "What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did he leave?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "You assume he was the one who ended it."

John pressed his lips together. It was a fair assumption, considering this was _Sherlock_ , but he couldn't say that. "Yes. If you'd ended it, you wouldn't have kept the picture on the mantel. Sentiment."

"Perhaps it simply hadn't occurred to me to put it away. I'd forgotten those were there, actually. Philip was the one who insisted I have some photos out in the first place. Said it made the place warmer."

"It's clean, though." John stepped forward and inspected the mantel more closely. "You said it had been a year, but the mantel's been dusted recently."

"Not by me. I've a cleaning woman who comes every two weeks."

John frowned, thinking. "The coffeemaker. You said you'd been thinking of getting rid of it. It was a gift from him. Last Christmas, most likely."

"Birthday, actually. It takes up too much space on the counter."

"But you've kept other things he gave you. This tree thing, for example. This isn't your taste at all."

Sherlock's gaze shifted to the glass tree on the mantel. "Well spotted. He bought that when we went to Venice. Murano glass." 

John's mind was flooded with a ridiculously over-the-top image of Sherlock and Philip sitting in a gondola, floating under the Bridge of Sighs at sunset. He took another large drink of wine. "Still, if you'd been the one to chuck him out, you would have sent him packing with everything that reminded you of him. Your mantel wouldn't be—" He only barely stopped himself from saying _a fucking shrine to your ex-boyfriend_. He paused to have a drink. "My point is, you wouldn't have kept the coffeemaker. You would have sent him off with it."

Sherlock's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "What if he didn't like coffee?"

John gestured wildly with his glass and nearly spilled the remainder of his wine. What the fuck was wrong with him? "Look, it doesn't matter. It's none of my business."

"So you keep saying." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he looked as if he was about to say something more, but his mobile rang. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. "Lestrade." It rang again, and Sherlock pocketed it.

"Aren't you going to answer it?"

"Now? Just when this conversation is getting interesting?"

"Answer the fucking phone, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at John with a strange expression on his face, and his mobile rang twice more before he finally raised it to his ear. "Yes."

John crossed to the window and tried to compose himself. Jesus, what was his problem?

"Of course," Sherlock said behind him. "This isn't a good time, though."

"No," John said, turning around to face him. Sherlock's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. "It's important, otherwise Greg wouldn't call you. The fact that he's working on a Saturday night says that it's important, so…" He gestured with the glass and turned away again, took a long drink. _Fuck_. 

"Yes, he is," Sherlock said, walking towards the kitchen. "I don't know if that's a good… I'll ask him. Just… Text the address. I'll let you know." There was a long moment of silence. "John?"

John turned to look at him. Sherlock's expression was guarded, and John felt a stab of guilt. He'd been invited over by an old friend and then had behaved like a complete arse. This wasn't like him, not at all. He tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it, and went for a neutral expression instead. "Case, I assume?"

"Yes." Sherlock pocketed his phone. "It's not something I'd typically be interested in, but… Would you like to come along?"

John blinked at him for a moment. The word _no_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he felt something swell in his chest, a strange sort of hopeful excitement. Hell, why not? After the way he'd behaved tonight, he could at least do this for Sherlock. "Yeah, sure."

Sherlock looked surprised for a split second, and then he smiled and reached for his coat. "Then let's go."

*****


	5. Chapter 5

Riding in a taxi with Sherlock was just as John remembered it: Sherlock spent most of the drive tapping at the screen of his phone, and John alternately looked out the window and watched the headlines scroll across the monitor embedded in the divider. After twenty minutes had passed, John began to wonder what the hell he'd got himself into.

"I hope you're not expecting me to pay the fare," John said at last.

"Sussex," Sherlock replied.

John turned to look at him. "Sorry?"

"What you actually wanted to ask was, 'Where are we going?' But you didn't; instead you made a statement indicating your annoyance with the length of the trip. I assumed it would be best to ignore the annoyance and answer your actual question. So, Sussex."

John pressed his lips together tightly. Rising to the bait would accomplish nothing. "Do you know anything about the crime scene?"

Sherlock continued to tap furiously at the screen of his phone. "Apparent break-in in the garden shed of an anonymous MP."

"We're going to investigate a break-in?" John's eyebrows shot up. "You're joking."

Sherlock sighed. "It's a favor for Lestrade."

"I didn't think the Met had jurisdiction in Sussex."

"They don't. He's doing a favor for a friend in the force there by calling me."

"Ah." John sighed and settled back into the seat as the taxi pulled onto the A3. The meter ticked ominously upward. "I still don't plan on paying this fare."

A trace of a smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "Don't worry about it."

After exiting the motorway and winding their way through a charming suburb, they finally arrived at a gate in a long stone wall. "This is it, mate," the driver said. "You certain you want me to wait?" 

"Yes. We won't be long." Sherlock opened the door and stepped out, and John followed. Sherlock pressed the buzzer at the gate, and after a quick exchange, the gate groaned open. 

"Jesus," John muttered. At the end of the cobblestone driveway was a massive house, surrounded by an immaculate garden. They followed the driveway around the back of the house, where a small group of police officers stood next to an ornate greenhouse. 

"Mr. Holmes!" one of the men jogged over and shook Sherlock's hand. "I'm so grateful you could come. D.I. Lestrade is on his way."

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock replied, glancing past him at the greenhouse. "There's no reason to wait for him, though. Show me to the scene of the break-in."

John followed, expecting Sherlock's usual snark over what was clearly a petty case, but it didn't come. Instead, he gave every sign of taking the entire thing very seriously. He frowned and nodded, listening as a woman who introduced herself as the personal assistant of the still anonymous MP explained what had happened.

"As you can see, the surveillance video blacks out at 23:10." She held out her phone so Sherlock could view the footage. "Three minutes later, the alarmed and locked door was opened. By the time the staff responded to the alarm, the intruder had gone."

"Was anything taken?" Sherlock asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing. And this has happened seven times in the last two weeks. We assume someone is trying to intimidate my employer."

Sherlock looked up at the door of the greenhouse. "Has the alarm system been checked out?"

"Yes, and there's nothing wrong with it."

"Very well. I'll have a look inside now." The PA nodded and led him to the door.

"Did I miss anything?"

John turned to see Greg standing next to him, dressed in jeans and a jumper. "Not yet."

Greg watched Sherlock and the PA disappear into the greenhouse. "I thought you weren't going to follow him to crime scenes."

John sighed. "I might have spoken too soon."

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything tonight."

John's jaw clenched automatically. "Just an argument."

"So just like old times, then." 

"Not particularly." John hesitated for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. "So… just out of curiosity, did he ever bring Philip to crime scenes?"

"Philip? Oh, right… _Philip_." Greg paused to smile knowingly at John. "He came along every now and again, when he had time. He was brilliant in his own right. A physicist by training, I believe. Teaches at University College, so he was often too busy. But when he did come along, it was always a treat."

"A treat how?"

"Ah, right, you've not met him, have you?" Greg's eyes lit up. "He was funny and clever, and he handled Sherlock as well as anyone I've ever seen."

"Did he?" John felt something unpleasant rise in his belly.

"And he wasn't hard on the eyes either, if you know what I mean. There was this one case where a woman had drowned in a public swimming pool and Sherlock suspected there was some evidence that had fallen to the bottom. We were going to send for a diver, but Philip stripped down to his pants and dove right in. Came up with a diamond earring, something it turns out she'd been given by her mafia boyfriend, and that ultimately led us to the killer." Greg paused to grin. "Once word went out over the radio that Philip was diving for evidence in his skivvies, the number of female officers on the scene doubled."

"Fit, was he?"

Greg snorted. "The man ran triathlons in his spare time. He once said he liked dating Sherlock because he didn't complain about the amount of time Philip spent at the gym."

"Don't tell me he got Sherlock to go to the gym with him?"

"Oh, I doubt it. I was never certain what those two saw in each other. I mean, Sherlock's good-looking in his own way. But Philip." He paused and shook his head. "I don't lean that way, but if I did…"

"Clever, funny, gorgeous, successful, well-educated, athletic – anything Philip wasn't?" 

Greg turned to look at him. "Well, he's gone now, isn't he?"

John winced, realizing what Greg was probably thinking. "I don't mean it like that."

"Are you sure? Because if I didn't know better, I'd suspect you were a bit jealous, mate."

John forced a laugh. "God, no! I'm not jealous of Philip. Why would I be jealous of him? He was a bloke Sherlock dated for a while, and they split up ages ago, and there's nothing to be jealous of."

"Right." Greg was giving him that skeptical expression again.

"And I'm not gay, for fuck's sake."

"I didn't say you were."

"Well, I'm not."

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets and looked over to the closed greenhouse door. "Being attracted to someone of the same sex doesn't automatically mean you're gay, you know. There's rather a lot of grey area in between those two ends of the Kinsey scale."

John groaned and looked away. "Bloody hell, can't I spend any time with Sherlock without people assuming we're shagging?"

"I'm not assuming anything, I swear. And I wouldn't judge even if you were. I did a bit of experimenting in my youth, you know. Nothing wrong there."

John turned to gape at him.

"John!" Sherlock called from inside the greenhouse. 

"Shall we?" Greg gestured toward the door.

John sighed and headed towards it. Sherlock was standing in the middle of the greenhouse, wearing a very smug expression.

"Everyone else out," he said. "Yes, even you, Ms. Birkland."

The PA looked surprised, but walked out with the other officers, leaving John, Sherlock, and Greg alone in the greenhouse.

Greg grinned. "Well, isn't this fun? Just like old times." 

"Sshhh," Sherlock said. "Listen."

They stood there quietly for a moment, but there was no sound. John and Greg glanced at each other.

"Security camera is there." Sherlock pointed up to the camera mounted above the door they'd just come through. "Seven times in the last two weeks, the video has gone black just before the door was opened. But how?"

"Someone disabled the security system so they could break in?" John offered.

"But why disable the camera and not the alarm system?" Sherlock replied.

"Clearly they could've done," Greg said. "But they wanted the alarm to go off. They wanted the homeowners to know they could break in whenever they wanted."

"But the greenhouse?" John asked. "That doesn't make sense. Why not break into the main house? It's likely on the same alarm system."

"Very good, John. Now, listen again."

John felt a strange warmth in his chest at the praise and smiled. He glanced at Greg, who was smirking at him. John rolled his eyes and looked away. 

They all stood quietly, listening. Nearly a minute passed, but still John heard nothing. Sherlock gestured for them to remain quiet, and then clapped his hands very loudly. There was a fluttering sound and they all looked up. A sparrow flew overhead and perched on the camera mount, eyeing them warily. It completely blocked the lens of the security camera.

"It was a bird?" John shook his head, incredulous. "But what about the door? The bird didn't open it."

Sherlock smiled. "Quite right. Let's take a look at that door."

They crossed to examine it. The bird twittered above them and flew away into the darkness again. Sherlock pointed to a small square on the bottom of the door.

"Is that… a cat door?" Greg asked. He leaned down to press against it. "It's locked, though."

"The cat would have a special collar," John said. "When the collar comes into range of the door's sensors, the magnets release and allow the cat through." Greg and Sherlock both looked at him, surprised, and John shrugged. "Mary and I had a cat. We didn't have a door like this, though. Bloody expensive."

"So, you're suggesting the cat opened the door?" Greg shook his head. "I can't wait to see how you're going to explain that one."

"Simple," Sherlock said, taking a step back. "The bird took up residence in the greenhouse sometime in the last few weeks. There's likely a small hole somewhere near the roof that it's using to enter and exit. The cat noticed its presence and has been hunting it."

John nodded. "So when the cat comes in, the bird freaks out and flies to the only available perch where the cat can't reach: the security camera mount, effectively blocking the camera's view."

"And then the cat jumps up to this shelf by the door and stretches her paws up, looking at the bird." Sherlock mimed the action of the cat, and Greg and John grinned at each other. "And if it's a fairly large cat, it could possibly touch this button." Sherlock indicated something that looked similar to a light switch in the wall by the door.

"And that opens the door?" Greg frowned at the button.

Sherlock touched the button and the door swung open. "Automatic door. Very convenient when one's arms are full of gardening tools."

John shook his head. "Fantastic."

"And extremely likely to be precisely what happened." Sherlock's smile was smug again.

"That's all very well, but how are you going to prove it?" Greg asked.

"Simple. Set up a camera inside the greenhouse and let it record all night." He shook his head. "Honestly, did no one think of this? It's a wonder they solve any crimes here at all."

"I'll let them know," Greg said, smiling. "About the camera, that is. Thanks, Sherlock. I owe you one."

"And I'll be sure to remind you of that fact in the near future. John, let's go. The meter's still running on the taxi." Sherlock wound his scarf around his neck and started out the door. John moved automatically to follow, and then stopped when he saw the smirk on Greg's face.

"It's not—" 

"I don't care what it is, John. Just go, will you?"

John sighed and jogged after Sherlock.

*****

"It is a lovely wine," John said an hour later. He settled into the chair and brought the glass to his lips.

"It is." They were both quiet for a moment. 

They'd been quiet for the entire cab ride back to London, uncomfortably so. Sherlock had finally asked John if he wanted to return to the flat to finish the bottle of wine, and John had hesitated. He really ought to limit the amount of time he spent with Sherlock. He felt such extremes of emotion in Sherlock's presence, and half of the feelings he couldn't make sense of. He definitely enjoyed being around Sherlock again, far more than he'd expected, but there was something about Sherlock that frustrated him, beyond anything he'd felt before, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"I enjoyed that," John said at last. "I'd forgotten how much fun it can be to watch you work."

"You didn't just watch," Sherlock said.

John laughed. "Yes, I did. As always, you were bloody brilliant." He looked up to see Sherlock staring at him. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier. You've not asked me any questions about my marriage, such as it was, and it's ridiculous that I should be—" He swallowed and considered his next words carefully. "—so shocked that you were also in a relationship in the last decade."

Sherlock's gaze shifted to his wine glass, which he was swirling thoughtfully. "Why did you invite me to the wedding?"

John paused to take a sip of wine. "Why didn't you come?"

"You didn't really want me there; you only invited me out of a sense of obligation. We'd once been friends, regardless of the way it ended. It was a large wedding and she has a large family. You wanted to have as many people as possible in attendance to sit on the other side of the church."

"I did want you there." 

"Yes, of course. You wanted me to see you'd really moved on." His voice changed pitch in a fairly good impression of John's voice. "Look, Sherlock, I'm married now. Look how perfectly normal my life is."

John closed his eyes. "No, that's not—"

"Isn't it, though?" Sherlock looked up again, and his eyes were unusually hard. "What would have happened if I'd gone? Did you expect me to smile and be happy for you?"

John stared at him and swallowed. "Actually, yes."

Sherlock took a drink of wine and looked away. "Well, we both know I wasn't going to be able to do that."

"You left me first." 

"And you know I had a very good reason."

"For the first month, yes. Hell, I'd even give you six months. But two years, Sherlock?" John set his wine glass down and shook his head. His anger was rising again, far too easily. "You let me think you were dead for two fucking years, and then you just show up at my front door and expect me to be happy to see you, that we could pick up where we left off and go on being best mates again, as if nothing happened."

"You know I'm sorry. I don't know what else I can say." 

"You've no idea what that was like, how much it destroyed me to watch you leap to your death. God, I spent a solid year in therapy." He pressed his hands against his forehead. "And then when the entire thing turned out to have been an elaborate plot, one you intentionally excluded me from – it made me question everything I'd ever known about you." He dropped his hands and tried valiantly to keep his voice even. "I _never_ doubted you, Sherlock, not once while I thought you were dead. But after…" He shook his head. 

They were silent for a moment, both of them staring down at their hands.

"I suppose I thought you'd forgiven me," Sherlock said at last.

"I thought I had as well." John took a deep breath and released it. "I should go."

Sherlock didn't respond. He continued to stare at the floor in front of him.

"Thanks for the wine, and for the adventure. Maybe we can have dinner again sometime." It sounded hollow and false even to his own ears.

"Of course," Sherlock replied. He sounded utterly defeated, and John's heart clenched. "I'll text you."

"Good. Well, then." John stood and crossed to the door. He pulled on his jacket, but Sherlock didn't move from his chair. "I'll just show myself out, shall I?"

Sherlock waved a hand that seemed to mean _yes, fine_ , but didn't otherwise move or even look up.

John stood there a moment more, warring with himself. He felt an unreasonably strong impulse to cross the room, to sit down again and say, _no, let's not do this_ , but his feet remained rooted to the spot. Thirty seconds passed, and Sherlock still didn't move, didn't look at him. 

John sighed and walked away, down the stairs, out the door, and down the pavement to the nearest Tube station. He didn't look back to see if Sherlock was looking out the front window – just in case he wasn't.

*****


	6. Chapter 6

John stepped through the door of his building and glanced at the screen of his phone. He had half an hour, just enough time to pick up a coffee at one of the kiosks in Paddington station before heading to work. He started down the pavement, and swore under his breath as a cold wind caught him just as he rounded the corner. He paused to wrap his scarf more tightly around his neck before walking on.

It was cold and the skies were ominously dark – not so unusual for this time of year, though Sunday had been a lovely day out: rare blue skies and unseasonably warm weather for the end of February, the sort of day John would ordinarily have spent walking about and enjoying the city. But yesterday, he hadn't even left his flat. In fact, he'd spent the entire day in his pyjamas, watching old films, eating cold beans straight out of the tin for lunch, and then consuming more tea than anyone ought to in a single span of fourteen hours. 

The day had gone by without a single text from Sherlock, as anticipated. John kept his mobile nearby, just in case, but it had remained completely silent, save for one call from Harry, which he ignored. He hadn't felt like talking to anyone. 

It had continued today. He'd slept fitfully, eaten a late lunch, and finally showered, relieved that he had something constructive to do, a reason to leave the flat. His evening shift started at five in the afternoon; by the time one in the morning rolled around, he'd be too tired to think about anything else. Or so he hoped, at any rate. 

He'd just got in the queue for coffee when the first text came. He felt an unexpected jolt of relief at the sound of the text alert, and immediately chastised himself for it. It probably wasn't Sherlock, anyway. He'd feel a right idiot for getting himself worked up over an auto-text from his bank. 

He managed to resist looking at his phone while he waited for his coffee, and then again during the walk to the platform. Even if it was from Sherlock, what good would it do to respond? What could Sherlock possibly have to say to him after all of that? John had bollixed things up badly enough as it was. Sherlock had actually been fairly gracious, and John had been the one to show his arse. It was just as well it happened when it did, he supposed. If he and Sherlock had really become friends again, it couldn't possibly have ended well. Best to cut things off now before any real damage could be done.

While waiting for his train, he finally gave in and pulled the phone from his pocket. 

_Possible lead on the serial killer cold case. Suspect has been spotted in South London. Could use your help. –SH_

John stared at the phone, incredulous. Whatever he'd expected, it certainly hadn't been an invitation to hunt down a murderer. He stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

When he emerged from the station near the hospital, his phone trilled again.

_No police involvement on this one. Very dangerous. –SH_

Two minutes later:

_If you still possess the Browning, bring it. –SH_

John almost laughed. What was Sherlock thinking? He'd got rid of the gun ages ago; Mary hadn't allowed it in the house. It had been a relief not to have it anymore – it was one of the last reminders of the life he'd left behind.

While he changed into his scrubs in the staff room, his phone trilled yet again.

_Meet me at Southwark station in half an hour. Sooner, if convenient. –SH_

John clenched his jaw and stared at the phone for a long moment. He needed to put an end to this right now, before Sherlock convinced himself John was actually coming. He typed and erased three different messages before settling on:

 _I have a shift tonight. Not available._

He folded his street clothes and put them in his locker, and after a moment's thought, put the phone in there as well. It was best not to be tempted to converse with Sherlock further. Just as he closed the door of the locker, he heard the text message alert. He hesitated for a moment, suddenly curious about Sherlock's response. 

Then it trilled again. And again.

"Fuck it," John muttered. He turned and walked away. He'd told Sherlock he wasn't available, and that was that. If John didn't engage, he'd eventually have to get the message.

Half an hour later, he was just finishing up the stitches in a young girl's arm when Alexa, one of the nurses on shift, stepped into the small patient room. 

"Dr. Watson?"

"Just a moment." He added the final stitch and then smiled up at his patient. "There, all done. The nurse will bandage you up."

The girl sniffled and nodded. 

"And learn how to stop the skateboard before you get on it again, all right?"

"Yes, doctor."

"Right. Good girl." He stood and patted her uninjured arm before turning to where Alexa stood in the doorway. "Yes, what is it?"

The expression on her face was one of mild disapproval, something he'd seen her direct at others quite frequently, but almost never at him. "You've got a visitor. He says it's a—" She made air quotes with her fingers. "—national emergency."

"A visitor?" John's mind was blank for nearly a full second before the realization hit him. He winced. "Oh, God. Tall, dark hair, long coat?"

"That's the one. And he's rather insistent you come out and talk to him at once." Her eyebrows rose from behind her glasses. "You know it's not acceptable for personal—"

"Yes, I know. I'll just go and… yeah." He walked past her, his cheeks flushing already. Jesus, what had got into Sherlock?

He headed down the corridor towards the waiting area and peeked through the door's small window: Sherlock was pacing the length of the room, radiating annoyance, while everyone sitting in the room watched him warily. John pressed his forehead against the door and groaned.

Best not to put it off any longer than necessary. He opened the door. 

"Sherlock."

Sherlock whirled around, his eyes narrowed. "John! I've been texting you for the last hour. Is your mobile suddenly malfunctioning or are you instead continuing to behave like an adolescent girl?" 

The entire waiting area went dead silent. Everyone turned to look at them.

Well, doing this in public was right out. John did his best to ignore the strange looks from both patients and staff, and opened the door wider. "Come with me." 

Sherlock trailed behind him down the corridor, and to John's horror, began talking. Loudly.

"Look at this place, John. There's plenty of staff. You'd hardly be missed for a few hours. And half of the people in the waiting area are not nearly ill enough to warrant a visit to A&E. Four hypochondriacs, three children whose parents are overreacting to a common virus, and at least one—"

"Sherlock, will you please shut up?" John spat. He led him around the corner, searching desperately for a place they could talk in private.

"This is _important_. Lives could be on the line."

"Look the fuck around, will you? Lives _are_ on the line."

"Oh, hardly." 

John could hear the eyeroll in the tone of his voice, and whirled on him, seething. "If you don't stop talking right now, I will have security toss you out on your arse. Got it?"

Sherlock looked for a moment as if he might argue further, but apparently John's expression of fury was convincing. Sherlock nodded, slightly paler than he had been before, and said nothing more. John stalked down the corridor again, valiantly ignoring the shocked faces of his colleagues as he passed. Sherlock followed him in complete silence.

John had hoped for an empty examination room, but had to settle for a supply closet. He gestured Sherlock in and closed the door behind them.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock gaped at him. "What _I'm_ doing? I'm working, John. I'm on the verge of tracking down a man who has murdered half a dozen people in the last two years, and who may well be about to murder another. You can't possibly think that setting a few broken bones and prescribing unnecessary antibiotics is more important than that."

John groaned in frustration. "This is my job, Sherlock. This is what I do. I'm not a police officer, or a detective, or a fucking—" He gestured wildly with his hands. "—ninja. I'm a doctor. These patients need me."

"I need you more." 

"No, you don't. What you need is to call Greg and give him the information you've received, and let the police do their job."

Sherlock made a sound of disgust. "Have you any idea how many criminals would still be walking the streets if I'd spent the last fifteen years doing that?"

"Oh, so this about catching the bad guys now, is it? I thought you were in it for the game."

Sherlock's hands flew into his own hair, something John had always recognized as a sign of frustration. "This argument is pointless. We're wasting time. Now please, John, drop this ridiculous grudge, get your things, and let's go."

It was on the tip of John's tongue to deny he was holding a grudge, but well, no: he couldn't really deny that, could he? He folded his arms across his chest. "No. I'm not going anywhere with you."

Sherlock's frown softened. "John, please. I can't do this without you."

"Oh, no, don't give me that look. I'm not falling for it." 

Sherlock grimaced. "I need you to work with me again, don't you see that? There is something about having you at my side that makes everything easier, that makes my mind clearer. I'd forgotten until a few nights ago that your presence makes a huge difference."

"Yes, well, if that's all I'm good for, why don't you ring Philip up? I'm sure he'd be happy to be your good luck charm again." He clenched his jaw: he'd practically spat out the words, though he hadn't intended to at all. 

Sherlock stared back at him, clearly shocked. "What are you talking about?"

John's cheeks flushed, inexplicably. "Look, just… _go_ , will you?"

Sherlock's expression bordered on incredulous. "How dim can you possibly be?"

John choked out a laugh. "I'm dim? You're the one who keeps texting me, even though I've made it completely clear that I don't want to be friends with you, that I don't want to work with you, and that I don't want to be reminded every fucking day of just how much you—" 

John broke off and stared up at Sherlock. His hands had somehow clenched the lapels of Sherlock's coat and he'd hauled Sherlock close to him, as if he wanted to shake some sense into him. Sherlock's eyes were wide and clear, and there was an expression on his face that John had never seen before. 

John swallowed, opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He hesitated a moment more, and then he crushed his mouth against Sherlock's.

Some immeasurable span of time passed – a second or possibly a full minute – and then John found himself pressed back against the door, being kissed rather spectacularly. His brain felt fuzzy and it was difficult to process anything but lips and wet and tongue, and _God_ – he would never have imagined that Sherlock could kiss like this, like he meant it, like he'd wanted to do it for a long, long time. 

John melted against him, against the long lines of his body through the opening of his coat. Sherlock was warm and unexpectedly soft and the door behind him was cold and hard, and the contrast was heady, maddening. He realized a moment too late that his cock was half-hard and that Sherlock couldn't possibly miss it, but John was helpless to stop himself, unable even to feel embarrassed. He clung to Sherlock's coat and kissed him almost frantically, fueled by the frustrations of the last few days, weeks, fuck, _years_. Sherlock shifted and a warm hand pressed against John's erection, and there, that, yes, that was what he wanted, and he moaned into Sherlock's mouth, arched up into that touch. Sherlock's hand slid beneath the waistband of the scrubs and into John's pants, and then there were fingers wrapped around his cock, and _oh God_ , he hadn't wanted anything so badly in years. 

Sherlock's hand was rough and quick, but it was perfect and John whimpered around his tongue and allowed Sherlock's free hand to keep his hips pressed back against the door as he worked John's cock, and _oh God_ , it wasn't going to take long. John didn't do things like this, never did things like this, but here he was and Sherlock's mouth was perfect and his hand pulled John's foreskin over the head in quick, short movements that were sending sparks down John's spine. John's fingers were probably leaving permanent indentations in Sherlock's coat and he couldn't focus on kissing anymore, but Sherlock seemed not to mind, just stayed there with their open mouths pressed together, sharing air as John's breathing grew ragged and there, _there_ , oh _God_ , he was coming. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder and gritted his teeth and did his best to remain quiet. 

They stood there for a moment, panting, and oh, God. _Oh, God_. What had just happened?

John leaned back against the door and kept his eyes closed, uncertain what to do or say. He'd done things like this so rarely, and never sober – there were a few quick hand jobs with men in the dusty corners of his memory – but he hadn't anticipated anything like this ever happening with Sherlock. 

And Jesus, Sherlock was probably wondering why John was just standing there when he could be reciprocating. John opened his eyes and looked up.

The expression on Sherlock's face was not what John expected at all: he looked frightened, almost horrified. He took a step back and shook his head, and couldn't seem to meet John's gaze. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he said, and pushed past John to open the door. 

"Sherlock, wait, don't!" 

But he was through the door and gone, and John was standing there with his cock hanging out and his scrubs stained with his own semen, and _shit_ , he had no idea how he was going to hide that. He scrambled to find something to wipe himself off with and ran down the corridor after Sherlock, but it was too late. He had gone.

John slumped against the wall for a moment. Had that really just happened? 

"Is everything all right?"

John turned to see Alexa eyeing him over the top of her glasses. He shrugged. God, he didn't even have the energy to lie.

Her expression was sympathetic. "Is it over, then?"

"I don't…" he began, and then stopped. Whatever he'd been about to deny, it was pointless now, wasn't it? "I'm not sure, to be honest."

She patted his shoulder. "We've all been there, dear. If you need a few minutes, take them. I'll cover for you. Dr. Whitman just got in anyway, so everything's under control at the moment."

He nodded and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "Yeah. Thanks. I'll be in the staff room, if you need me."

He felt numb as he walked down the corridor, turned the corner, and keyed his way into the staff room. The room was blessedly empty and he stood there for a moment, staring at nothing.

What had just happened? He'd thrown himself at Sherlock, yes, but Sherlock had responded – hell, he'd definitely responded – but then had seemed to regret it immediately. John crossed to the counter and filled the kettle, thumbed it on. 

Did he regret it? He'd just had a shag in the supply closet, for fuck's sake. That was the sort of thing that only happened on crap telly. And it had been with Sherlock, and that – John exhaled – Jesus, had he felt that way about Sherlock all along, and somehow not realized it? 

The kettle clicked off and he pulled a cup from the cabinet, dropped a tea bag in, and poured the water over it. He sat in a chair with the cup between his fingers and stared into it, watching the brew darken.

He'd started it. He'd definitely wanted it, and he'd even wanted to continue before Sherlock had fled. And he'd kissed Sherlock after saying absolutely cruel things, things that he knew he didn't mean. He'd just been protecting himself, hadn't he? He'd been hurt before, and he couldn't bear the thought of being hurt that way again. He'd been so certain Sherlock didn't feel that way about him, about anyone. 

But there had been Philip, of course. Fucking perfect Philip, who probably taught Sherlock to kiss like that and whose cock had probably been in Sherlock's hands and mouth and arse more times than John wanted to think about. 

He set the cup down and pressed his hands against his face. He had to make things right, somehow. He'd confused the hell out of Sherlock, but maybe, just maybe, the situation was still salvageable.

He rose and walked over to his locker, and opened it. His phone was still sitting on top of his folded clothes. There were half a dozen texts from Sherlock on the screen, each demanding that John come to meet him at once, each phrased in a slightly more desperate way.

He sighed and turned on the phone, and thought for a moment before tapping out a response. 

_I'm off at midnight. I can meet you anywhere. Just text the location._

He sat at the table and sipped his tea, and waited. And waited. Just as he was about to give up and go back to the floor, his phone trilled. He nearly dropped the cup he was rinsing in his haste to look at the screen.

_Not available. Do not text again. –SH_

[John sat staring at the phone for quite a long time](http://headlessgirlsart.tumblr.com/post/45639362042/im-totally-hooked-on-emmagrant01s-latest).

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by Headless Girl for the end of this chapter [is here](http://theheadlessgirl.tumblr.com/post/45639362042/im-totally-hooked-on-emmagrant01s-latest).


	7. Chapter 7

Three days passed, and John still had not heard from Sherlock. John hadn't tried to text again; Sherlock had made it clear he wasn't interested. He tried his best not to think about it, to focus on the fact that he now had what he'd insisted he wanted: Sherlock was finally leaving him alone.

Too bad that was no longer what he wanted.

*****

"Definitely a concussion, Mr. Lansford," John said as he scribbled on the chart. 

The man lying on the bed in the examination room groaned. "I was training. Race next weekend. My bike is totaled."

"As are you, I'm afraid," John said, and gave him a sympathetic smile. "You'll not be racing this weekend. We'll keep you overnight for observation."

"Shit. It wasn't even my fault. That driver wasn't fucking looking." The man closed his eyes and grimaced. "Sorry, just… this completely sucks."

"That it does." John closed the file and stood. "Is there someone waiting for you? I can let them know you'll be here until tomorrow."

"My boyfriend. He'll be the one in bike gear."

"I'll let him know. The nurse will look in on you in a moment and we'll transfer you to a regular room within the hour." 

The waiting area was fairly empty even for a Thursday afternoon, and so the boyfriend of his patient was hard to miss in his brightly colored riding gear. There were two helmets on the seat beside him; one was fairly mangled and John stared at it for a moment, frowning. That could have been his patient's head.

"You came in with Jack Lansford?" John asked, and his eyes moved to the man's face. 

"Yes," the man replied, sitting forward in his chair. "How is he?"

John's breath caught in his throat: his hair was different and his face was lined with worry, but there was no doubt that the man sitting before him was the very same one he'd seen in the photo on Sherlock's mantel. He appeared to be just as fit as ever, and even in his current state, incredibly good-looking. 

John swallowed down a spike of jealousy and took a deep breath. "You're Philip, aren't you?"

The expression on Philip's face became even more anxious. "Yes, I— oh, God, is he all right?" 

There were so many things John wanted to say, wanted to ask, but no, he didn't have the right – not now, when Philip was here under these circumstances. He forced himself to focus. "He's fine, or rather, he will be. He has a concussion and is bruised up a bit, but has no other injuries. We'll keep him overnight for observation. I'm afraid he won't be able to race this weekend, though."

Philip exhaled, clearly relieved. "That's the least of my worries at the moment. God, I'm so glad that's all it is. I mean, I do understand that a concussion is serious, but the way he flew up when that car hit him…" Philip pressed his lips together and shook his head. 

"I'm sure it was horrible." John sat in a chair across from him. "You must have been terrified."

"I was, I really was." Philip grimaced and paused to wipe at his eyes. "Sorry, shit. I'm just so relieved he'll be okay."

John nodded, and firmly ignored the voice inside his head that was cheering at the revelation that Philip had so clearly moved on. "He'll be moved to a regular room soon. You can leave your number with the receptionist and they'll give you a call when he's settled in, so you can come visit him."

"I will. Thank you, Doctor—" Philip's gaze dragged over the identification badge on John's chest. "—Watson." He paused and frowned, and looked up at John's face again, his eyes widening slightly before the blood seemed to drain from his face. "Oh, my God. You're John Watson."

"Yes, I… I am." He was surprised that Philip would recognize him, but then surely Sherlock had a photo of him somewhere. He forced a smile. "I believe we have a friend in common."

Philip's expression shifted again, this time to something unreadable. "I believe we do. How is Sherlock?"

John hesitated. "I don't know. I haven't seen him for a few days."

"A few days?" Philip's eyebrows rose. "So are you…" He stopped himself and looked away. "I'm sorry. It's really none of my business. I should go home and change so I can look in on Jack. Thank you for your help."

"Would you like to get a cup of tea?" John blurted. 

Philip looked up again, clearly surprised. "Sorry?"

"I'm due for a break, and the hospital cafeteria is just around the corner." Philip's eyes narrowed, and John felt himself flush. "I just… I would really appreciate a chance to talk to you."

"I'm not sure we have all that much to talk about." Philip's tone was cautious, bordering on icy.

"Look, I know this is awkward, but Sherlock and I are not really on speaking terms right now, and I…" He pursed his lips, uncertain how to phrase _I really want to interrogate you about your relationship with Sherlock_ in a non-creepy way. "It'll be at least an hour before they get Jack moved, and another hour after that before they'll let him have visitors, so if you want to kill a little time, get your mind off it or…" He winced: where had his bedside manner gone? "If you'd rather not, I understand."

"Yeah, no, it's fine." Philip didn't smile; his expression was far closer to resignation than anything pleasant. "A cuppa sounds good about now."

*****

"He emailed me with a very obscure physics question, something not even my grad students knew to ask. So obviously, I was intrigued." Philip paused to take a sip of his tea. "I found out later that it was for a case. But anyway, we exchanged emails for several weeks and then one day over lunch I mentioned to one of my colleagues that I was corresponding with him, and she got rather excited. She told me who he was and I looked him up. He sounded completely fascinating." He shrugged. "The next time he emailed me with a question, I suggested we meet in person to discuss it."

"That must have been interesting." John imagined Sherlock arriving at a café with a stack of books, then never touching his drink and talking a mile a minute. 

"The moment he walked through the door, I was smitten. I thought he might be gay, so I flirted with him, but he seemed completely oblivious." 

John snorted. "Not the first time that's happened." 

Philip's lips pressed into a thin line for a moment before continuing. "I told him to let me know if he had more questions, and he emailed me the next day. I took it as a sign he was interested and asked him to meet me for lunch. He did, and then I asked him if he wanted to have a drink with me the following night, and it continued like that for a week." He paused and smiled at the memory. "I don't think he had any idea we were dating until I invited him over to my flat for dinner, and kissed him."

"I suppose he worked it out then?"

Philip's lips twisted. "He had it completely worked out by the next morning, I'm sure."

John had just raised his cup to his lips, and it remained there for several seconds before he remembered to take a sip. 

"Sorry." Philip looked a bit sheepish.

"No, it's fine," John said, and set his cup down. "I'm just… surprised." Though he shouldn't be, considering what had happened between him and Sherlock earlier in the week. 

"Anyway, it was a strange relationship, unlike any I've ever had. He was brilliant and funny, and brutally honest, and incredibly inventive in bed." Philip paused to take another sip, and John tried very hard not to think about the implications of that last statement. "But it was like a hot and cold running tap. I'd see him five straight days and we'd have a fantastic time, and then I wouldn't hear from him for a week."

"Sounds about right."

"I got used to it. I even enjoyed it, at first. I had this amazing boyfriend who understood when I needed to disappear for three days because my research was going well, that sort of thing. I think I had more papers published during the time we dated than I have before or since."

"So what happened, if you don't mind me asking?"

Philip pursed his lips. "It became clear to both of us that it wasn't going anywhere. I wanted him to move in with me, and he just refused, said he was impossible to live with. He seemed satisfied with the arrangement, and I… I wanted more, you know? I want to settle down, get married, maybe start a family."

"That's not Sherlock."

"No, it isn't." Philip paused and stared into his tea cup for a long moment. "Besides, it's sort of pointless to be in a relationship with someone who is in love with someone else."

John frowned. Had there been another boyfriend, someone no one had mentioned? "Someone else?"

Philip looked up at him with an expression of annoyance, and it cleared again almost immediately. "Oh, God. Don't tell me you don't know."

"No, I only know about you. As far as I know, he's never been in another relationship, ever."

Philip stared at him, incredulous. "I'm talking about _you_ , John."

"What?" John felt the blood drain from his face. "No, not me. We were friends, not…" 

"Jesus, I can't believe you don't…" Philip set down his cup and leaned his elbows on the table, his expression not unlike the one John wore when telling patients bad news. He took a deep breath. "Right, so. He's completely, desperately in love with you. Has been for, what, fourteen years?" 

"No, that… that can't be right." John swallowed and looked away.

"Trust me; it is." Philip's voice took on a rough edge now. "I was compared to you every moment. Not that he made it so obvious, but you were always there, always the person he wanted by his side. I tried to be more like you, or like this image he held of you. I even went to crimes scenes when I could, helped with cases, but it was clear I was never quite good enough."

"Oh my God," John said, and pressed his forehead against his hands. It hadn't occurred to him that Sherlock might feel that way about him, might always have done.

"I never really understood why it was that you left. He wouldn't talk about that part, except to say that he'd done something you couldn't forgive him for." He paused, exhaled. "So the two of you… you weren't together?"

"No. Not like that. We were friends, just… friends. I had no idea he felt that way."

"Jesus. That makes it even…" Philip paused again and seemed to consider his next words carefully. "I wouldn't have thought it possible for someone to live with that kind of unrequited love for so long, but I suppose that if anyone could do it, he could."

John swallowed and felt his eyes sting. His universe was tilting sharply, and there was nothing he could do about it. It was mad, all of it, utterly mad. "Oh, God." 

"Well, this explains quite a lot." Philip sighed. "I'm glad we met, John. I'm ashamed to say that I've rather disliked you for a long time. I thought it was your fault that Sherlock could never..." He pursed his lips and shook his head. "It's actually a relief, in a way, to know it wasn't what I thought it was."

"I can imagine." John tried to smile, and utterly failed. "Look, I'm sorry for…" He trailed off, uncertain what he was apologizing for – or to whom he was really apologizing. He exhaled and tried to clear his mind, to shove the storm of emotions down again. Later: he'd have time later. Right now he had to go back to work and figure out what to do next and take care of patients and fucking _exist_ with this knowledge that Sherlock… Jesus. 

"Me too." Philip drained his cup and pushed his chair back. "I'd best get home and changed so I can come back and spend some time with Jack."

"He'll be fine, he really will. They'll take good care of him and he'll probably be released in the morning." He stood and held out his hand. "Best of luck, yeah?"

Philip took it and gave it a firm shake. "Thanks. And good luck to you with… well, whatever."

"I think I'm going to need it." 

Philip left, bike helmets in hand, and John sat with the rest of his coffee for a long time.

*****

_I know you said not to text, but I need to talk to you. Please respond._

_I'm sorry. I want to see you again. Please call._

_I'm an arsehole. Text me._

_Please answer your phone. Just give me five minutes._

When John's phone finally rang on Saturday afternoon, he snapped it up, heart in his throat. He'd spent hours planning what he would say, imagining all the possible ways Sherlock might respond. He'd replayed the encounter in the supply closet over and over, trying to come to terms with the fact that, after years of protesting, he wasn't quite as heterosexual as he'd thought. The rawness he felt was startling: the memory of Sherlock's hand sliding into his scrubs sent a jolt of desire through him in a way he hadn't felt in a long time. 

He didn't know what it meant that he was only now aware that his feelings for Sherlock went far beyond friendship. And the idea that Sherlock had felt this way for so long – John still couldn't quite wrap his brain around it. He'd sifted through his memories, looked at old incidents in this bright new light, and wondered why he hadn't seen it before. Sherlock had never acted on it, had never risked their friendship, had just taken what he could get during the brief time they'd had. 

John took a deep breath and looked at the display of his phone.

It was Greg. He winced and thumbed it on. "Hey."

" _John, sorry to bother you, but have you heard from Sherlock?_ "

"No, not for a few days. Why?" 

" _He's not answering my texts at all. I mean, he doesn't always respond, but I had a case yesterday that would have been right up his street, and he almost always replies to those._ "

"The last time I talked to him was nearly a week ago, and… Oh God, he wanted me to go off and help him hunt down that serial killer." Panic began to rise in John's chest, sharp and hot. 

" _Shit. Any idea where?_?"

"Not really. He wanted me to meet him at Southwark station, but I had to work, so I… Jesus, Greg." John exhaled, tried to force himself to calm down, but there was nothing for it. The reality of the situation crashed down on him now, all the terrible possibilities blooming vividly in his mind. 

" _Okay, don't panic. I'll contact Mycroft and see if he knows anything. You head over to Sherlock's flat and see if you can find something, any sort of clue about where he might've gone. Hell, maybe he's just holed up there, ignoring us._ "

John firmly clamped down on the voice in his head that said, _Or maybe he's been dead for five days._ He closed his eyes and tried to steady his voice. "Right. I'll text you when I get there."

He grabbed his coat and headed out the door, down the stairs, out to the kerb.

Fucking hell – he could have gone with Sherlock that night. It would have been so easy. All he had to do was say _yes_. And now… 

He blinked, swallowed it down, and raised his hand to hail a cab. 

*****


	8. Chapter 8

John's stomach was in knots by the time he reached the door of 221B Baker Street. He rang the buzzer for Sherlock's flat, but there was no response. He rang the buzzers for the other flats as well, and waited, but there was only silence. After nearly a minute, he pounded on the door in frustration.

A moment later, it opened just enough for Ella to glare at him through it. "He's not here. I haven't seen him."

"Ella, God, I'm glad you're here." John stepped forward, and an expression of panic flashed across her face. She pushed the door nearly closed. "No, wait! Look, he's missing, and I'm worried sick. Have you any idea where he might have gone?"

"No."

"Could I go up and have a look, please? I might find something, some sort of clue as to what happened to him. Please."

Ella stared back at him through narrow, darkly-lined eyes. "Why should I trust you? I've only seen you once before. For all I know, you've got something to do with him being missing. Here to ransack his flat, are you?"

John groaned in frustration. "Oh God, look – your aunt, she knows me. Call her and ask her about John Watson, she'll tell you I'm—" 

Ella's eyes widened, and she opened the door. "You're John Watson? Why didn't you say so in the first place?" She stepped back and gestured John through.

"Thanks!" He dashed up the stairs and through the door into the main room of the flat. It was eerily quiet, and clearly empty. He stood in the middle of the room and rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand, uncertain where to begin.

The sitting room had been Sherlock's work space when John had lived here, the walls frequently covered with pictures and clippings and clues about the cases he was working on. Now they were bare, though, no sign of case-related clutter anywhere. The door to Sherlock's bedroom was open, but a brief glance inside revealed it to be neat and orderly, containing nothing unusual.

John returned to the sitting room and stood in the center, frowning. What was he missing?

 _Ah_ – of course. He turned and headed upstairs to his old bedroom, hesitating only a moment before turning the knob. Late-afternoon light filtered in through a set of sheer curtains over the window, and even before his eyes had adjusted, John knew he'd found the right spot. 

The room clearly hadn't been used as a bedroom in a long time. There was a large desk on the wall opposite the door, bookshelves lining most of the available wall space, and a tattered sofa positioned under the window. A small end table next to the sofa held an electric kettle, a tin of tea, and an empty cup. Covering the wall above the desk was a large collage of articles, notes, and photographs. John flicked on the light and walked over to examine them. There were articles about the half-dozen grisly murders this particular serial killer had committed, stories about the victims' lives, and photographs of each. There were sticky notes all over the pages, covered in Sherlock's familiar scrawl. In the center of the display was a map showing locations where the bodies had been found, scattered about London with no pattern John could discern. Copies of coroners' reports were tacked in a neat column on the right side of the display, with various statements highlighted in yellow and green. John caught glimpses of words like _torture_ and _dismemberment_ before he looked away.

He was not going to think about that now.

He scanned the desk and sifted through the bits of paper on it, but there was nothing there that gave any indication of where Sherlock might have gone. He plucked his phone from his pocket, tapped at the screen, and held it to his ear. It rang only once before it was answered.

" _Lestrade_."

"I'm at the flat. I've got nothing. Whatever clue led him to believe he knew where to find the killer is either not here or completely unobvious to me."

" _I just spoke with Mycroft. He had no idea Sherlock was missing, but he's having his people go through surveillance video from the area around Southwark station on the night Sherlock disappeared. They should be able to give us an idea of where he was last seen, anyway_."

John exhaled. "I've got nothing else to go on, so I'm going to head that way now."

" _I'll meet you there in twenty_."

John shoved his phone back in his pocket and closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down. His heart was nearly pounding in his chest now, and he cleared his mind, trying to focus only on the goal of finding out where Sherlock was last seen. 

He opened his eyes and looked at the collage on the wall again, hoping one last clue might jump out at him. He looked over the clippings, the map, the— He stopped, and blinked.

In the bottom left corner of the display, nearly covered with other pieces of paper, was a photograph that looked completely out of place in the grisly collage. He plucked it from the wall and traced his fingers over the images, swallowing down a sudden surge in emotion. It was an old photo of him and Sherlock; it looked to be from a news article about the two of them in the weeks leading up to Moriarty's trial. In the photo, Sherlock was scowling slightly, as if annoyed, and John was looking at him in a way that could only be described as fond. 

Why was this photo here, amidst the clues and evidence that made up Sherlock's work? He stared at it for a moment, and then it hit him: the photos displayed on the mantel downstairs were of failed relationships, strained relationships – and this one, this photo that captured so much of their friendship, was hidden from view, displayed privately in a place where Sherlock probably spent hours in thought. 

Sherlock had told him that John's presence helped to clear his mind, that being near John made a difference. Was that why this photo was here, in a place that must remind Sherlock intensely of John, of a time when John had been part of his life and his work? The rest of the flat seemed so devoid of the character John remembered, but in this room – _his_ room – he could see Sherlock everywhere, from the collage of evidence to the books on the shelves to the boxes of scientific equipment stacked in the corner. He could picture Sherlock lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought as his forgotten tea cooled on the table. The rest of the flat was astonishingly normal, a place where Sherlock could have invited Philip over and not had to hide his experiments, or explain the grisly crime scene photos on the wall. But this room, this was the place Sherlock had retreated to, the place he could most intimately be himself. And this photo was part of that. 

John's eyes stung now, but he didn't try to swallow the emotion away. How much time had they wasted, all these years? Looking at his own face in this photo now was astonishing: had he really ever looked so young and alive and… happy? His life had been so different then, so full of danger and excitement. Even now he could see the closeness they'd shared, the way they'd complemented each other so perfectly. 

And then it had all gone to hell. John had spent two years thinking he'd watched his best friend take his own life, that he'd somehow missed the signs that Sherlock was suicidal. It had shaken his faith in himself to the very core. But no, John hadn't been so wrong about him, had he? Sherlock had survived that fall, and if he could do that, he could do anything. He could be alive right now, and waiting for John to come find him.

He tucked the photo into his pocket and wiped at his eyes. This time John wouldn't stand on the ground and watch helplessly. This time he was going to take action.

He rifled through the desk drawers and pulled out some supplies he thought might come in useful, and headed out to catch a cab.

*****

It was twilight when John got out of a taxi near Southwark station. Greg waved at him from across the street and John jogged over to him.

"They've got him on surveillance not far from here. He came down this street, went that way, last seen near Burrows Mews." Greg gestured in the general direction.

"How long ago?"

"Monday night."

"Five days." John steeled himself. "And nothing since?"

"Not that they've found." Greg's expression was strained. 

"Right, then. Let's have a look around." 

They headed down the street, around the corner, and down another street, winding their way past industrial buildings converted into blocks of flats. The streets were relatively quiet for a Saturday evening, though there were lights in many windows.

"Stay here a moment," John said, and crossed the street to where a woman was huddled on the pavement under a streetlamp. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, fished out a £50 note, and knelt in front of her, holding out the photo he'd taken from Sherlock's flat. "Can you help me? The man on the left is Sherlock Holmes. Do you know who he is?"

She stared at the photo for a moment and then turned her gaze to John, unblinking. 

"He's missing," John continued, swallowing down his fear that this was a dead end. "He was last seen right down this street five days ago. He was looking for a suspicious man, a murderer. If you've seen anything unusual, anything at all, it would be of great help to us." He held out the note and she took it, examined it, held it up to the light. 

"I know who he is. Haven't seen 'im, but there's a bloke that comes and goes at odd times, and always looks 'round the street before he goes in, nervous, like. Only been here a week or so."

John nodded. "Yes, that could be the one. Which flat? Can you show me?"

She looked down the street, squinting, and shaded her eyes from the harshness of the streetlamp above. "Either 5 or 6. He's come in and out that door, anyway." 

"Thank you." He stood and crossed the street back to where Greg was waiting. "She's seen suspicious activity around 5 and 6."

Greg cast the woman a cautious glance. "Homeless network?"

"Yeah. I thought it was worth a shot. So, what's the plan?"

Greg already had his phone out of his pocket. "I've got back-up on standby near the station; just let me confirm." He stepped aside to speak into his phone quietly, and John heard only snatches of phrases like "possible hostage situation" and "extremely dangerous." He finished with, "Right," and turned back to John. "They'll be here in five minutes."

John clenched his jaw, took a deep breath. "I can't just stand here and wait for the cavalry to bust down the door. What if it's not the right address and the disturbance warns the suspect off?"

"I knew you were going to say that." Greg's expression was one of resignation. "Look, we can do a bit of recon, but that's it. I'm already breaking enough rules by bringing a civilian into this." 

John turned to head down the street before Greg could change his mind, and Greg had to jog to catch up with him. They reached the door of the building for flats 5 and 6, and they both stood and stared at it for a moment. 

"Can't exactly ring the buzzer, can we?" Greg asked. He prodded at the door experimentally, but it was definitely locked.

"Not to worry." John pulled some tools from his pocket that he'd pilfered from Sherlock's desk and set to work on the lock.

Greg made a choking sound. "Oh, for fuck's sake! Do you have any idea how many laws we're breaking right now?"

"No, but I'm sure you'll leave this bit out of the report." 

"Do I even want to know why you can pick locks?" Greg shifted behind him, apparently trying to block this criminal activity from the view of anyone who happened to be looking out a window.

"I picked up quite a few unusual skills living with Sherlock. Luckily for us, this appears to be the sort of lock I know how to pick." It was taking a bit longer than he expected, though he was surprised that he remembered what to do at all. There were so many things like this he'd picked up from Sherlock, odd bits and pieces of information. He'd have to find them all again, put them back to use. 

After two interminable minutes, the lock finally clicked and he pushed the door open. The entryway was dark, and they slipped inside as quietly as they could manage. John propped the door open with a brick he'd nearly tripped over in the entryway, and they paused to let their eyes adjust in the dim light that seeped in through the doorway.

"So, plan?" John whispered.

"Try not to get killed. Speaking of—" Greg pressed something into John's hand, hard and cold, and John had to bite his lip to stop himself from gasping.

He ran his fingers over the steel of the barrel, checked the cartridge, hefted the weight of the gun in his hand. God, it felt… _good_. He compressed the trigger just slightly – yes, an automatic safety. Perfect.

Greg shifted slightly beside him. "That never happened, by the way."

John's lips twisted slightly. "No idea what you're talking about."

Greg nodded his head towards the door of the lower flat, and John crossed to it. There was a faint light coming from under the door, but there was no way to know if this was the correct flat. John pressed his ear to the door, but he heard nothing. He turned to Greg and shrugged.

"I'll check upstairs," Greg whispered, and he disappeared from view. 

John kept his ear to the door, kept listening. There was a faint sound like a male voice, and then it was gone again. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins now, sharpening his focus.

A minute later, Greg reappeared at his side. "The upstairs flat is vacant. Door was open, no evidence of recent occupation. Got to be this one."

"Right." John took a deep breath. "Ready?"

Greg shook his head. "My boys will be here in two minutes, John. Two minutes aren't going to make a difference at this point." John turned to look at him, and Greg winced. "I just mean that if Sherlock was in any immediate danger, you'd have heard something, right? We have one shot at this, and we need to do it properly."

John shook his head. "I can't just sit here. I can't."

"I know, I know. Fuck, if it was Lori, I'd feel the same way, but you won't do him any good if you bust in without backup."

John's eyes narrowed, but Greg didn't flinch, hadn't even realized the implication in what he'd just said. 

Or maybe he'd meant it exactly as he'd said it. 

There was a noise outside on the street, and they both turned to look. An armored man stood in the doorway with a nasty-looking weapon aimed right at them, and John heard Greg sigh with relief. He signaled with his hands and the man in the doorway nodded, and turned back to signal to the men behind him.

John felt Greg's hand clench his shoulder. "They'll go in first, bust down the door. We'll go in when we get the all-clear."

John nodded, allowed Greg to pull him back to the other side of the entryway as the space around them filled with officers in urban combat gear. Within a minute, a well-placed boot on the door forced it open, and the officers flowed in. There was a scuffle, and some shouting, and then Greg started forward, nodding to John to indicate it was time.

John followed, gun at the ready, his heart pounding in his ears. The flat was relatively bare; the only furnishings were a raggedy-looking sofa and a wooden table with folding chairs around it. There was a man face-down on the floor, shouting obscenities and struggling against the officers who were holding him down. 

John's gaze didn't linger on him for long, though: on the other side of the room, tied to a chair, was Sherlock. 

Everything else became a blur of color and sound, and John found himself standing before Sherlock without any recollection of having crossed the room. He tucked the gun into the back of his trousers and grasped Sherlock's face with both hands, and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead without even thinking. Sherlock's eyes were wide as he strained against the rope binding his hands behind his back. A strip of silver duct tape covered his mouth, and John set to peeling it off as carefully as he could manage. Considering that Sherlock had several days' growth of beard, it was no small feat.

The moment his mouth was free, Sherlock snapped, "What the hell are you doing here?" 

To John's astonishment, the expression on his face wasn't one of anxiety or fear, or even relief, but of… annoyance? John gaped at him, uncertain how to respond.

"I had the situation completely under control before you lot barged in!"

"Under control?" John looked down at him, at the state of him, incredulous. "You were bound and gagged, held hostage by a serial killer! What part of this scenario remotely resembles any form of control over the situation?"

"I was wearing him down," Sherlock replied through nearly gritted teeth. "In another day I'd have had him confessing everything to me."

"You're mad, do you know that? You're lucky he hadn't tortured you to death and chopped you into tiny pieces before we could get here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. I'm nowhere near his standard victim profile."

John's disbelief was rapidly being replaced by fury. "You complete… _wanker_! I ought to leave you tied up here, after all you've put me through these last few days."'

"After all I've put _you_ through?" Sherlock stared at him as if John were the insane one. "This is all your fault! If you'd come with me when I first texted you, I wouldn't have had to resort to plan B in the first place."

It was astonishing how familiar this feeling was, of simultaneously wanting to punch him and kiss him. And there was nothing for it, was there? He had no chance of talking a whit of sense into the man right now, not when he was all righteous and riled up and… _ugh_. John groaned and swallowed it down, as he'd done a hundred times before. 

"Yes, well, I've beaten myself up quite enough over that this last week. For whatever role I may have played in this madness, I apologize. All right?"

Sherlock frowned, but this seemed to placate him a bit. "Apology accepted."

John valiantly fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Are you all right? Do you have any injuries?"

"No, of course not." Sherlock's expression shifted back to annoyed.

"Do you want some?" John muttered as he crossed behind Sherlock to untie his hands.

Across the room the suspect was being hauled out, bound hand and foot, and still shouting out expletives and various bits of insanity. Greg seemed to be conferring with the lead officer; he gestured around the room and then over to John and Sherlock. It occurred to John then that they'd been given quite a lot of privacy up to now.

"I promise you, John, I was in very little danger." Sherlock's tone was that of one who was deeply misunderstood. "I presented myself to him as an admirer, a stalker, really. I told him I wanted to learn everything I could about him and his methods, and he agreed to make me his apprentice."

John finally managed to untie the knot of the bind. "That's possibly even more fucked-up than what I was imagining."

Sherlock wriggled his hands loose from the rope and brought them to his chest, rubbing at them. "I told him I've nicked hundreds of body parts and done experiments on them—"

"Which is true, frighteningly enough."

"—and he was impressed. He kept me tied up to the chair, but he gave me protein bars and water, and let me have regular toilet breaks."

"Thank God for that." John stood and extended a hand, and Sherlock took it, allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. "It'd be a rather unpleasant taxi ride otherwise."

Sherlock almost smiled at that. "He only put the tape over my mouth when he wanted me to be quiet."

"That works? I'll have to keep it in mind."

Sherlock scratched at his bristly chin. "You removed it with a bit more care than he usually did."

"You're welcome," John said, unable to keep himself from smiling now. "Too bad he didn't let you shave as well. I don't think I've ever seen you looking this scruffy." He reached up to rub his thumb across Sherlock's chin and then it hit him: it was over and Sherlock was fine and everything was going to be all right. They had another chance. They had all the time in the world. He let his fingers curl around Sherlock's jaw, let his thumb trace across his lower lip. "I don't think I've seen a more wonderful sight in my whole life."

Sherlock stood very still and stared back at John, and John realized what he'd just done. He flushed, dropped his hand and looked away. Jesus, there were probably fucking stars in his eyes.

"Let me get you home, all right? I'm sure the paperwork and debriefing can wait a day or so."

Sherlock nodded, and then frowned, and shoved his hand down the front of his trousers. Over the pants, but still, John couldn't help gaping at him.

"What the—"

Sherlock's hand reappeared, now holding his phone. He thumbed it on and frowned. "I thought that was probably you. Fourteen texts, John, really?"

"You… you had your phone the entire time?" John shook his head in amazement. 

"I hid it in a place I hoped he wouldn't look. I silenced it, of course. I didn't dare hope you would honor my request not to contact me." His gaze was accusatory.

"Oh, for fuck's sake! How was I to know you were—" John threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat, and then a thought occurred to him. "Hang on, you said you silenced it. Does that mean that every time I texted or rang you—"

"Yes," Sherlock said, not quite meeting John's gaze. "It does."

John laughed at that; he couldn't help it. The idea that each of those texts or phone calls had sent a wee vibration right to Sherlock's balls was just too priceless; his mind was filled with an image of Sherlock squirming each time he'd texted. "I'm sorry, it's just…"

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "I can't say I didn't enjoy it."

"All's well that ends well, eh gents?" They both turned to see Greg grinning at them. 

" _Well?_ " Sherlock scowled at him. "If you'd waited one more bloody day before—"

John stepped forward. "What he means to say is _thank you_ for saving his arse, yet again." 

"I do not!"

John rolled his eyes and turned to face Greg. "I'm taking him home. You can expect him down at the Yard first thing Monday morning."

Sherlock made a sound of disgust and Greg grinned. "Of course. We have a medical team on standby, if he needs attention."

John smiled. "I think I can handle it."

Greg raised his eyebrows at that, and John felt his cheeks heat. Greg turned to Sherlock and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to see you're still with us."

"Of course I am. Why does everyone persist in thinking I was ever in any danger?"

John shook his head. "Do you really think that nutter would have let you go after telling you all of his secrets?"

"I could have escaped."

"What, like bloody Houdini out of the straitjacket?"

Sherlock sniffed. "I'm rather good with my hands, I'll have you know."

"Yes, I'm aware." John smirked at him, and it was Sherlock's turn to blush. 

Greg coughed, and they both turned to look at him. "Monday, you said? Right. See you then." He gave John a meaningful look before he turned and walked away.

"So," John said after a moment.

"So."

"Hungry?" 

"Yes. Though I need to clean up. Take away?"

"Chinese?"

"Thai."

"Fine. I'll call from the taxi."

Sherlock's phone buzzed; he peered at the screen for a half a second before rolling his eyes and shoving the phone into a pocket. "Mycroft is on the warpath."

John's eyebrows rose. "He had no idea you were missing until Greg told him. He was probably worried sick. He helped us find you, you know."

"You still seem to be laboring under the impression that I needed to be found."

"Wanted to be found, then." John gave him a sideways glance. "You can't deny you were pleased to see me."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I suppose not. It's always good to have you. With me. Working with me, I mean." He looked away, and John thought he could detect a hint of a flush on Sherlock's cheeks in the dim light.

Outside the flat, the street was already taped off. Police officers bustled about, taking the flat apart for evidence. Greg flagged them down as they started to walk away. 

"Just got a call from Mycroft." Greg's expression was one of amusement, as if he was used to being Sherlock's handler after all this time. "He's sending a car for you two." 

Sherlock groaned. "I just want to go home. John, do something."

John grinned. "I wouldn't mind a free ride, actually. I just gave a homeless woman fifty quid to tell us where you were, so I'm a bit short on cash."

Sherlock frowned. "Fine. Then you can bloody well deal with Mycroft or whichever of his lackeys he's sending over."

"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten how much fun that could be." John winked at Greg, who was grinning at the two of them. 

They walked down the street side by side, and John couldn't help feeling like he'd traveled back in time, back to the first mad night he'd spent with Sherlock after a case. He glanced over to see Sherlock looking back at him, wearing a very pleased expression.

By the time they reached the end of the street, there was a sleek black car waiting for them. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John grinned as the driver hopped out and opened the door. A young woman working on a tablet was seated inside, and she didn't look up as they slid across the leather seats to sit opposite her.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," she said in greeting, tapping at the screen of her tablet.

"Good evening," John said with a broad smile. God, he was enjoying this far too much.

"Mr. Holmes had a pressing engagement he was unable to cancel, but he will pay the two of you a visit in the morning."

"Perfect," Sherlock grumbled. "He'll want breakfast, I'm sure." He turned to look appraisingly at John. "You always made good omelets."

John blinked. "You never ate them."

"I did so. Occasionally."

"Do you even have the ingredients?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If not, you can run out and get them in the morning, can't you?"

"But I," John began, and stopped. Apparently everyone was assuming John would be spending the night at Sherlock's flat. Hell, he probably would be. Whatever that meant. "What time?"

The woman looked up and gave him a bland smile. "Around eight, I believe. Unless you're planning a lie-in. Should I relay to him that you'd prefer he come later?"

"No, best to get it over with," Sherlock replied. He turned to look out the window.

"Right," John said. He let himself just look at Sherlock for nearly a minute, watching the way his chest rose and fell, the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the clench of his fingers against his thigh. He was nervous, John realized – nervous about what was going to happen next.

What _was_ going to happen next? Several possibilities flitted through John's mind, each naughtier than the last, and he felt a small jolt of anticipation. They had other business to attend to first, of course. But after that… John turned to look out his own window and tried very hard not to squirm in his seat. It was going to be a fucking long ride back to Baker Street. 

*****


	9. Chapter 9

"So, Thai, was it?" John surfed through a list of recommendations on his phone, then sorted by proximity.

"Green curry, with chicken. There's cash in my wallet." Sherlock pulled his coat off and hung it on the hook by the door. It looked remarkably good for having been crumpled in a heap on the floor next to the chair he'd been tied to for nearly a week. "I'm going to take a shower."

"A spectacular idea," John replied. 

Sherlock's wadded-up scarf hit the back of his head.

When the bathroom door was closed, John pulled the gun from the pocket he'd transferred it to in the car, and looked at it. It appeared to be police-issue, which meant it probably had been assigned to Greg personally. John wasn't sure if it was meant to be a short-term loan or a long-term one, but he supposed time would tell. The fact that Greg trusted John enough to let him have it for any length of time was humbling; it was a responsibility John wouldn't take lightly. He wrapped his coat around the gun and set the bundle in a safe spot high on a shelf. 

The restaurant he'd chosen delivered to their area, so John settled in to wait. He heard the tap running in the bathroom, and then the shower, and he couldn't sit still any longer. He went to the kitchen, filled the kettle on the countertop and plugged it in. 

He'd originally intended to see Sherlock home, to make certain he was uninjured and that he ate, and then – well, that was the problem, wasn't it? He hadn't let himself think much further ahead than that.

The kettle clicked off and John poured water into two cups, and dropped in tea bags. He didn't know if Sherlock still took sugar in his these days, so he put the sugar bowl on the table with the cups and sat down to wait. 

Just a few hours ago, he'd stood in this very room and worried he might never see Sherlock again. He'd thought, in that moment of insanity and grief, that if he had the chance, he'd tell Sherlock how he felt, that he wouldn't waste a moment of any additional time he might be given. And here they were, and Sherlock was home and alive and fine and, well, _naked_ right now on the other side of that door. 

Was he ready for this? It had been ten years, and he'd clung to that grudge so tightly, but now, _now_ \-- there didn't seem to be any reason left to push Sherlock away, not anymore. The pain had morphed into something else altogether, without him realizing it. He wasn't exactly sure when it had happened, but somewhere between that first dinner and the hand job in the supply closet, everything had changed. 

His fingers were tapping nervously against the tabletop now, and he exhaled, tried to relax. He hadn't let himself dwell on the sex; he'd spent much of the week thinking Sherlock didn't want to see him again, and in the last 24 hours he'd mostly worried that Sherlock might be dead. But now it floated to the front of his thoughts: the way Sherlock's mouth had felt against his own, the touch of his hand, and the incredible raw urgency of it. It sent a jolt of arousal through him even now.

The shower shut off and the flat grew quiet. John sipped his tea and tried to quell the anticipation rising in his stomach. 

The door of the bathroom opened and Sherlock emerged, hair damp, feet bare, and wrapped in a dressing gown. John stood and crossed to him. This part, at least, should be straightforward enough.

"Feeling better?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I think I just ruined my razor."

John smiled. "You could have kept growing the beard, you know. It might have made a good disguise."

"It would attract attention in this city, rather than deter it. Not the best sort of disguise." Sherlock raised a hand to his now-smooth chin. "Besides, I've never understood the appeal of facial hair."

John's eyes focused on the raw marks and bruises on his exposed wrist, and he stepped forward. "Here, let me see that." He took one of Sherlock's hands in his and pushed up the sleeve of his dressing gown to take a closer look. "It'll be sore for a few days, but shouldn't interfere with normal activity. If you've got an antibiotic cream, that will help." He looked up to see Sherlock staring back at him, and he swallowed. "Right, any other injuries I should see to?"

"No." Sherlock's response was abrupt – for all the ways he'd changed, some things remained exactly the same. 

"You've been held hostage by a serial killer for the last five days. Forgive me if I'm not going to take your word for it."

"There's nothing wrong with me that a hot meal and a good night's sleep won't fix." Sherlock moved to walk around John, apparently headed toward the kitchen. 

John stepped in front of him and gave him his very staunchest _I'm a doctor_ look. "I'll be the judge of that." 

For a moment it seemed that Sherlock might argue with him, but then he stopped and muttered, "Fine." He tugged at the tie of his dressing gown and let it fall from his shoulders to pool at his feet on the floor. He looked up at John and held his hands out to his sides as if in challenge. [He was completely naked](http://emihotaru.tumblr.com/post/82420062121/just-a-quick-doodle-ive-made-after-reading-emma).

John swallowed and tried valiantly to find a place to look that wasn't utterly inappropriate. "I didn't mean—"

"This is the most efficient way, isn't it? Take a good look, John. Go on." He stared back without a hint of embarrassment on his face.

John exhaled as smoothly as he could manage. "This isn't the way it normally goes. Which you'd know if you ever bothered to go to the doctor."

"Yes, well, my doctor left London a long time ago. I haven't wanted to find a new one."

John clenched his jaw. "Right. I'll just... Fine." 

He glanced down the length of Sherlock's body, trying very hard not to let his eyes linger for long on any one spot. Sherlock was still thinner than he ought to be, but he clearly hadn't neglected himself completely. There were a few bruises here and there, but most were faded and didn't indicate any internal injuries. He circled behind Sherlock and looked at the expanse of his shoulders, his back, and let his gaze linger on his arse for longer than was professionally necessary. There was a rather large bruise on his lower back near a kidney, and John pressed his hand over it gently. Sherlock startled at the touch.

"Sorry."

"Your hands are—"

"Cold, I know."

"It's fine."

"Does this hurt?" John pressed lightly against the area around the bruise.

"No." 

John watched him carefully, but Sherlock didn't flinch. He smoothed a hand up Sherlock's back before he could stop himself, and he felt Sherlock shiver slightly. He moved to stand at Sherlock's side and placed both hands on his ribcage, one hand in front and the other in back. "Take a few deep breaths."

Sherlock did, eyes closed, and John ignored the impulse to lean in and press a kiss against the pale skin of Sherlock's shoulder. His hands moved across Sherlock's body to the other side, almost in an embrace, and Sherlock inhaled again. John's forehead was close enough to Sherlock's shoulder that he could feel the heat of his body. He exhaled as smoothly as he could manage, and felt Sherlock's slight tremor as that breath brushed against his skin.

"You're right," he said, stepping back. "You're completely fine, as far as I can tell."

Sherlock looked relieved, and quickly bent over to retrieve his dressing gown from the floor. "As I told you, several times." He didn't move to put the dressing gown on, though; he bunched the fabric tightly in one hand and held it over his groin.

John's eyebrows rose and Sherlock looked back at him almost defiantly.

The buzzer of the door sounded, cutting off further argument. 

John rifled through Sherlock's wallet for cash and went down to get the take-away. When he came back up with the paper bags of food in hand, Sherlock was seated at the table, the dressing gown wrapped around him once again. Sherlock made no move to get up, so John retrieved plates and silverware from the cupboards, only belatedly realizing what he was doing – and that he'd known exactly where to find everything, since Sherlock apparently kept the dishes in the same place as they'd done all those years ago. 

John set everything on the table and pulled containers out of the bag. "Well, I've made myself at home, haven't I? I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." Sherlock raised the cup to his lips, but not before John saw a hint of a smile there. 

"I ordered enough food for you to have it again tomorrow."

Sherlock reached for a container and began emptying some rice onto his plate. "Good idea, as I doubt I'll be in the mood to go out."

John spooned food onto his own plate and they ate in silence for several minutes. 

"If you're wanting something stronger than tea, there's a bottle of whiskey in the far left cupboard." Sherlock didn't look up from his plate.

"That wound up, am I?"

Sherlock stabbed at a bit of chicken with his fork. "You needn't have been so worried about me."

John snorted. "How could I not be? After the way we left things, and then you run off after a murderer and don't answer your phone for nearly a week?"

Sherlock swallowed and looked up. "John, I…" He frowned, as if uncertain what he wanted to say, and then looked away again and said nothing more.

John moved the food around on his plate, working up the courage to start the conversation he knew they needed to have. "I met your friend Philip a few days ago." Sherlock's expression changed to one of surprise, and John forced himself to continue. "It was a complete coincidence. His boyfriend had a bike accident and was brought to A&E, and I recognized him. We had a talk."

"Ah." Sherlock's expression was perfectly neutral. "I assume he's doing well?"

"Yes, definitely." John took a bite of food and watched Sherlock eat for a long moment. "He asked about you."

"Yes, of course he did." At John's look of surprise, Sherlock gestured broadly with his fork. "You and he both are masters of the delicate art of meaningless small talk. It would have been a textbook example, I imagine." 

John let the sarcasm go for the moment. "So what happened with you two?"

Sherlock shrugged. "All of the usual things. We ate meals together, usually at restaurants and sometimes at each other's flats. We talked about all manner of topics. We had sex approximately 3.2 times per week. We—"

"No, that's not what I meant." John had to bite back his annoyance. "Why did you split up?"

Sherlock's fork chased a piece of chicken around on his plate. "He wanted things I couldn't give him. I found the relationship satisfactory the way it was: occasional companionship, reasonably intelligent discussion, a shared appreciation of science and logic, that sort of thing. But it was obvious that he was growing dissatisfied. We argued about it more and more frequently, and it became… unpleasant. It was a joint decision to stop seeing each other, really."

"What things?"

"Sorry?"

John took a deep breath. "You said he wanted things you couldn't give him."

Sherlock pushed his plate away and picked up his tea cup again. "I cared about him, and was obviously very attracted to him, but I could never say that I loved him."

"You mean… Oh." John swallowed. "And he—"

"He said it six months in, and then nearly every time we saw each other after that. But I didn't feel that way about him. I was fond of him, yes, but…" He paused for a moment and took a sip of tea. "I respected him too much to lie to him."

John sighed. The more he knew about Philip, the more sympathy he felt for him. "I'm surprised it lasted as long as it did, if it was so one-sided."

"I think he expected I would come around." Sherlock's smile was wry. "But I'm not wired that way."

John's heart sank, and he looked down at his plate. "I see." 

"John?" He looked up to see that Sherlock was watching him with a very guarded expression. "I'm sorry for what happened at the hospital."

John stared back at him. "What exactly are you sorry for?"

Sherlock's face was strained. "I know you don't… that you're not interested in…"

"I kissed you first."

"And I should have stopped it at that, rather than..." He made a wild gesture with his hands.

"And I think it was fairly clear that I enjoyed it." John raised his eyebrows. 

"That's not the point." A wrinkle appeared at the bridge of Sherlock's nose. "I understand that it was a one-off thing. You acted on an impulse in the heat of the moment. It was just adrenaline, a classic case, really. I don't expect anything more, so you needn't worry."

Sherlock's gaze remained firmly fixed on the table, and John nearly gasped at the flash of understanding that swept through him. Sherlock had loved John for years, and then that night at the hospital, he'd finally had a taste of what he'd wanted. But the idea that this might be all it ever was, that perhaps John would regret it and break off what remained of their friendship afterwards – Sherlock thought he'd ruined his last chance to have John in his life again, and he'd fled.

John pressed a hand over his mouth for a moment. Jesus, how had he not seen this until now? 

"Sherlock, look at me." He waited until Sherlock looked up again, and he took a deep breath. "It wasn't a one-off. I don't want it to be a one-off."

Sherlock's expression was blank, his mouth open slightly as if he was still processing what he'd just heard. "I don't understand."

John couldn't help smiling. "There's something I've not heard very often." He paused again, trying to find the right words. "I didn't know that was something I wanted until the moment I kissed you. And then it was instantly clear." He shook his head and forced himself to look up at Sherlock. "Look, I know things have been difficult between us for a long time now, and I… I don't know why I clung to my anger for so long. I'm a bit of an idiot, I suppose."

"You're not an idiot." Sherlock's voice was soft, but his expression was completely earnest.

"My point is that I haven't wanted anyone that way in a long, long time. And when you touched me – God, I haven't come that hard and that quickly in thirty years." He felt his cheeks heat at the memory, and he had to bite his lip to cut off the nervous laugh that threatened to bubble out. "And I wanted to touch you too. You've no idea how much I've thought about what I could've done, should've done, before you ran away."

Sherlock swallowed and looked down at his plate. "John, this is… You have to understand that this is something I can't do lightly. You are… With you I'm…" He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them, looked up again. "If you aren't completely, utterly serious about this, then don't say another word about it. We'll pretend it never happened, and it will be fine."

"You'd do that?" John felt a surge of emotion, and he pushed it back down again. "You deserve better than that, you know. You deserve to be loved."

Sherlock's carefully neutral expression broke then, and for a moment he looked impossibly young. "Do I?"

"Yes. Of course you do." John slid a hand across the table, palm up, and Sherlock stared at it for a moment before sliding his own hand over it, fingers brushing against John's wrist.

He exhaled. "Well, then. That's…" He looked up at John and his eyes were bright. 

John squeezed his hand and released it, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. He pushed back from the table. "So, where's that whiskey, then?" Some social lubrication was definitely needed at this point. 

"Far left cupboard, top shelf."

John stood and retrieved the bottle, then filled two glasses with ice before returning to the table. He poured a double for each of them and pushed one across the table to Sherlock. "Cheers."

Sherlock picked up his glass and took a larger sip than John expected, then set the glass down again and stared into it.

John took as large a sip as he could gut down. "So when you say you're not wired that way, what do you mean, exactly?"

Sherlock's mouth tightened slightly. "A long time ago I accepted the fact that I would never get what I really wanted, not completely. I found ways to be satisfied, even occasionally happy, but I will not be able to love anyone else, not like that."

"So… what is it that you want?" John asked, his voice soft.

Sherlock's smile was rueful. "I think you already know."

John huffed out a breath and tried to rein in his frustration. "I'm actually very confused right now."

"I assume you asked Philip why we ended our relationship, and I also assume that he told you the truth."

John swallowed and paused a moment before responding. "He said that you were in love with me."

"As I expected. The truth. I didn't tell him much about you, but he was intelligent enough to work it out on his own." Sherlock's expression was completely earnest, and John could only stare back at him for a moment.

"But you just said that you couldn't love anyone that way."

"Anyone _else_ , John. Do keep up." He picked up his glass again and gave it a swirl. 

John felt his breath leave him in a rush, and it was a moment before he remembered to take another one. "What if I feel the same?"

Sherlock went very still. "Do you?"

"I think that maybe I do, and I didn't realize it until… well, until right now, to be honest." His head swam for a moment. It felt true, truer than anything he'd said about himself in a long time. Silence stretched between them for several seconds, and John exhaled. "I have no idea what to say now." 

"Say you'll stay."

John smiled. "Yeah, I don't think I'm going anywhere."

"Good." Sherlock pulled his plate back towards him, and to John's astonishment, added more food to it. He quirked an eyebrow at John's expression. "I barely ate for a week, you know. I'm hungry."

John watched him eat, his own appetite now replaced by a building anticipation. Jesus, at his age, at this point in his life, why should this feel so awkward? If it had been anyone else, he would have stood up, pushed the table aside, and then—

John swallowed down the grin that threatened to spread across his face. He could only imagine what Sherlock would say if he did something as ridiculous as that.

"What?" Sherlock asked through a mouthful of rice.

John leaned back in his chair. "[It always did make me happy to see you eat](http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com/post/48934801850/it-always-did-make-me-happy-to-see-you-eat-my)."

"My mother often said something similar."

"Someone's got to look out for you."

Sherlock looked for a moment as if he might protest that he needed looking after, but seemed to think the better of it. He smiled and dug into his curry. 

"It's late, isn't it?" John said ten minutes later as he put the last of the leftovers in the refrigerator. He turned to where Sherlock was leaning against the kitchen entryway, bleary-eyed. "You must be exhausted."

Sherlock nodded, but didn't say anything more.

"I ought to go home, let you get some sleep."

"Don't."

"Okay." John bit his lip and tried to ignore the flip his stomach had just done. "I suppose it's too much trouble to go all that way and back before Mycroft arrives, anyway." 

"Definitely." The corners of Sherlock's lips turned upwards in the beginning of a smile. 

John ran a hand through his hair. He was uncertain exactly what staying overnight would mean, but in any case, he needed to clean up a bit before – well, whatever. "Do you mind if I take a quick shower?"

The hot water felt amazing sliding over his skin; he'd forgotten how good the water pressure was in this flat. He pilfered a bit of Sherlock's shampoo and washed his hair, and scrubbed off the rest of the adrenaline-fueled sweat from the craziness of the evening.

The extra towels were, thankfully, still stored under the sink. He dried himself off and stared at his reflection. He'd been a much younger man the last time he'd looked in this mirror, with a lot less grey hair and fewer lines on his face. And now: what was he doing? Was he ready for this? The idea that he might walk out of this bathroom and take Sherlock to bed made him grin cheekily at his reflection. It had been years since he'd felt that heady anticipation of a night with a new lover. And the fact that this one was male – it wasn't something he'd expected to find at this point in his life, to say the least. But then, nothing about his relationship with Sherlock had ever been conventional, had it? 

He ran a hand across his rough chin. He'd considered shaving, but Sherlock's razor really was in bad shape. He made an attempt at cleaning his teeth without a toothbrush and then turned towards the door. One of Sherlock's dressing gowns hung on a hook there, and he wrapped it around himself. No matter what happened, there was probably no point in putting his clothes back on at this point in the evening.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. The flat was dark and quiet, and it was a moment before his eyes adjusted. He switched off the bathroom light and looked around. The door to Sherlock's bedroom was open; he walked towards it and stopped in the doorway. Sherlock was in bed, his back to the door, with the covers pulled up to his shoulders. He seemed to be asleep.

John sighed, pressed a hand to the back of his neck. It was ridiculous to be disappointed, really. He knew Sherlock was exhausted, and that they had plenty of time to… well, to explore this new thing between them. The sofa would be fine for tonight. John turned away.

He was three steps towards the sitting room when he heard a muffled voice say, "Don't be an idiot, John. Get back here."

John grinned and turned back.

Sherlock had turned to face him; he now watched with an expectant expression as John walked towards him. John stopped next to the bed and stood there for a few awkward seconds, struck by a sudden shyness. He'd never been completely naked in front of Sherlock before. He was definitely thicker around the middle than he'd been a decade ago, and he'd got a good enough look at Philip a few days ago to know that Sherlock's last lover was far more fit than John had ever been.

But he wasn't getting in the bed with the dressing gown on, so there was nothing else for it: he untied the dressing gown, pulled it off, and tossed it over to a chair. He stood there for several long seconds as Sherlock's gaze roamed over his skin, not at all shy about his own curiosity. It lingered just below John's waist for several seconds before Sherlock looked up at his face again with a smile that bordered on wicked. John grinned then, unable to help himself, and he slid under the sheets and turned onto his side, propping his head up on a hand.

Sherlock's expression had shifted to one that was perfectly neutral, and he made no move to get closer. John watched him for a moment, uncertain, and then the realization hit him so hard that he nearly gasped: Sherlock still didn't believe John really wanted this. He was waiting for John to make the first move, just as he'd done in the supply closet. Just as he'd done with Philip. 

"Are you—" John began.

"I've waited years to get you in my bed. I can wait until tomorrow if you'd rather—"

John lunged toward him and cut him off with a kiss. Sherlock made a soft, desperate sound against his mouth before sliding his arms around John and kissing him back. It was different than the kiss in the supply closet had been, less frantic and more controlled, but it was so clearly full of feeling. He'd forgotten how erotic it could be, this slide of tongue and lips and heat, and even more so because of the way Sherlock was clinging to him as if for dear life. One of Sherlock's hands moved to the back of John's head and held him still, and Sherlock's tongue circled his own lightly before drawing it between his lips to suck on the tip. John whimpered: it was hot and wet, and _God_ , he hadn't been kissed like this in longer than he could remember.

Oh, God, they were actually going to do this, weren't they? 

Sherlock's hands moved to his shoulders and pulled him closer, so that his weight rested on Sherlock's chest. John's cock was hard now and brushing against Sherlock's thigh, and he couldn't help the moan that escaped his mouth when Sherlock's fingers closed around it. John pulled out of the kiss to trail his lips across the line of Sherlock's jaw and down his neck, and the soft sounds Sherlock made in response were mesmerizing. John moved down Sherlock's body to kiss his shoulders, his chest, and marveled at the strangeness of sliding his fingers over the sparse hair there. There was nothing soft or round about Sherlock, but somehow it didn't matter; the difference wasn't nearly as jarring as he'd expected. It just felt _good_ , and right in a way he wouldn't have anticipated before the last few days. 

His hand moved lower, down over the sharp bone of Sherlock's hip, and a few inches over until he found Sherlock's cock, hot and hard against his belly. 

"Oh God," Sherlock said, and John slid back up to capture his lips while he stroked his fingers up the shaft.

It had been, Jesus, almost thirty years since he'd done this to someone else – and he'd learned rather a lot about being a good lover in the interim. He kept his strokes teasing at first, mapping out the contours of Sherlock's cock with his fingertips, listening to the sounds he made and the way his body tensed when John touched a particularly sensitive spot.

"I was going to do this in the supply closet before you ran away," John whispered against Sherlock's lips. He pulled back enough to focus on Sherlock's face. "I've wondered what it would feel like to touch you, what it would be like to see you like this."

Sherlock stared up at him. "Knowing that would have made the last five days significantly more bearable." John stroked up, twisting his hand slightly at the head, and Sherlock's mouth fell open.

"If you can still form coherent sentences, I'm clearly not doing it right." John grinned at him and sped up his strokes. The blanket was soon far too restricting, so he pushed it off with one foot and got his first real look at Sherlock's erection. It was long and slender, just like the rest of him, and John shifted down the bed a bit to have a closer look. The glans was dark and shiny, and a bead of fluid pooled at the slit. It began to drip just as John's hand stroked down, and on impulse he leaned forward and licked it away.

Sherlock hissed above him and John realized what he'd just done. He'd never done _that_ before, though the idea had occurred to him, of course. And here he was, quite literally faced with the opportunity. 

Before he could make a decision either way, Sherlock's hand clenched his shoulder. "Come here."

John slid back up and found himself pulled into a scorching kiss. He sped up his strokes and Sherlock whimpered into his mouth, and then, there, Sherlock was coming under his fingers. John pulled out of the kiss enough to look down, to watch his face, to see the way his head tilted back and his mouth opened, expression gone slack with pleasure. John lightened his strokes, not quite ready to let go. 

Sherlock finally relaxed into the mattress, let his arms fall back over his head. He opened his eyes and looked up at John with a shy grin. "That was a bit quick, wasn't it?"

"I'll take it as a compliment." 

John leaned down to kiss him again, a soft slide of lips and tongue. He felt a hand slide around the back of his skull and hold him there, and then Sherlock took control of the kiss. It was a long, slow tease, John realized after a moment: a preview of what Sherlock could do with his mouth. Within a minute, it was all John could do not to rut against Sherlock's thigh. Just as he was on the verge of begging for something, _anything_ to relieve the pressure, Sherlock pushed him to the side and rolled them both over. 

John's brain reeled at the odd sensation of being pressed into the mattress by someone larger, of having someone else's thighs pressing his own apart. The implications of the position flooded his mind, and he pressed one heel against the back of one of Sherlock's thighs, pulling him in closer. He wasn't averse to the idea, though it clearly wasn't on the agenda tonight. Sherlock's mouth moved down his neck, over his shoulder, to his chest, and John gasped when his tongue flicked lightly at one nipple. 

John was squirming with need by the time Sherlock moved across his chest to pay attention to the other one, and couldn't help the sound of frustration that escaped his lips.

"Impatient," Sherlock murmured against his skin, and John laughed.

"I'm not used to someone wanting to take their time." 

Sherlock paused at that and pressed a soft kiss to his stomach. "Really?"

John sighed and closed his eyes. He didn't really want to think about what his sex life hadn't been in the last decade, not when he was getting a preview of what it could be, right now. "Don't stop."

Sherlock trailed kisses down John's stomach, his fingers moving lightly over John's sides, and then dipped the tip of his tongue into John's navel. John laughed and squirmed again, suddenly ticklish, and Sherlock did it again until John pushed at his shoulders. Sherlock shifted down the bed until he was settled between John's thighs, and the sensation of hot breath against the taut skin of his cock made John groan aloud. 

"I should tell you," Sherlock said, and paused to flick his tongue against the sensitive spot under the glans, "that I've wanted to do this for a long time."

"H-Have you?" John gripped the sheets in his hands, desperate to hang on as long as possible.

"I've fantasized about the way you would taste, the sounds you would make…" Another lick, and John saw stars. "Even when I did this with Philip, I imagined it was you." Sherlock's mouth closed over the glans and he sucked lightly, and John hissed. 

"I'm not going to last very long, oh God." He couldn't help tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair, and Jesus, how long had he wanted to do that?

Sherlock groaned at that, and he swallowed John's cock, moving in one, two, three strokes before John felt the beginnings of his orgasm. 

"I can't—" 

Sherlock sucked hard then, one long pull upwards with the flat of his tongue wriggling against the underside of John's cock, and it was all John could do not to buck his hips up, to shove his cock down Sherlock's throat. Sherlock had a firm grip on his hips now, as if he'd read John's mind, and John's universe shrank down to the warm wet heat of Sherlock's mouth. He was vaguely aware of his own cries, but even the sound of his voice was a faint buzz in his head, white and foggy around the edges. 

Sherlock was still sucking him gently when his head cleared, a soft warm movement that somehow managed not to put any pressure on oversensitive spots. 

"Oh my God," was all John could manage for a moment. He felt tingly and light-headed. His fingers were numb. "I… you…" He swallowed and opened his eyes to look down at Sherlock, who had finally released his softening cock with an expression of clear reluctance. "That was fucking amazing."

Sherlock kissed the inside of his thigh. "That was nothing. Next time I'll suck you for half an hour before I let you come."

John half-laughed, and then realized he was serious. "Oh, God."

Sherlock crawled up his body and kissed him, and John could taste himself on Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock settled down next to him and brushed his nose against the shell of John's ear. "And then if you let me, I'll fuck you until you come again."

John swallowed and closed his eyes. "If you suck my dick for half an hour, you can have me any way you want."

Sherlock chuckled beside him. "I intend to."

John turned his head to look at him: Sherlock's eyes were closed, and he looked as happy as John had ever seen him. John turned onto his side and moved closer, and Sherlock raised his arm so that John could nestle into his shoulder. He tugged the covers up over them both, draped his arm across Sherlock's chest, and yawned.

There were still things they needed to talk about, things that had to be said and done – but it could wait for morning. For now, it was fine. It was all fine.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Doublenegativemeansyes](http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com): "[It always did make me happy to see you eat](http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com/post/48934801850/it-always-did-make-me-happy-to-see-you-eat-my)."
> 
> Art by Emihotaru : "[He was completely naked.](http://emihotaru.tumblr.com/post/82420062121/just-a-quick-doodle-ive-made-after-reading-emma)"


	10. Chapter 10

John was alone when he awoke the next morning. He stretched and yawned, and smiled as images of the night before bubbled to the front of his thoughts. Maybe he could lure Sherlock back to bed for another round before—

He heard voices in the sitting room: Mycroft was already here. And of course, John's clothes were still folded up in the bathroom. _Shit._ He sat up and looked around in the dim light. The bed was a disaster: sheets pulled off at the corners and the duvet twisted sideways. Sherlock had hogged the covers, of course. Neither of them was used to sleeping with another person lately. 

John smoothed a hand over the place where Sherlock had slept, and swallowed. Would he sleep here often? He had no idea what to expect, what route this – whatever it was – was going to take. Sherlock loved him, of that John was certain, but what this meant for the two of them, for a relationship between them, was something they still had to discuss.

He stood and retrieved the dressing gown he'd put on the night before, and listened to the clink of china and muffled conversation coming through the closed door. He could wait it out – he could go back to bed, maybe back to sleep, and wait for Mycroft to leave. 

But of course, Mycroft's assistant had said he wanted to talk to both of them this morning. John pulled on the dressing gown and tied it tightly around himself. He'd much rather face Mycroft Holmes in his trousers, though he supposed it hardly mattered what he was wearing at this point: he was leaving Sherlock's bedroom first thing in the morning. Mycroft had probably already worked it out from the way Sherlock scowled at him, or blinked, or something. 

John took a fortifying breath and opened the door. Sherlock and Mycroft were seated opposite each other, both holding cups of tea, and they paused their conversation when he emerged the bedroom. He gave them a terse, "Good morning," before disappearing into the bathroom as quickly as possible.

His clothes, as it turned out, were not where he'd left them, and he could only groan and resign himself to his fate. He pissed and washed up a bit, and then headed straight to the kitchen for a much-needed cup of coffee. He was stymied by the one-cup coffeemaker for several moments before he finally pushed the right sequence of buttons and produced a mugful of coffee strong enough to make his eyes water. 

He sat on the sofa as casually as he could manage, and tried to ignore the smug expression on Mycroft's face. "Good morning."

"Sleep well?" Mycroft asked.

"Naturally." John smiled and raised the cup to his lips. No reason to be discreet around these two. "Sorry if I'm interrupting. If national security is on the line, I could always go back to bed and leave you to it."

Mycroft's smile was exceedingly polite. "I merely wanted to check on the well-being of my brother after his humiliating ordeal."

"Oh, please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "You're simply embarrassed that you lost track of me for a few days."

"I was in France for a conference, as you well know."

"Where telecommunications are still firmly stuck in the twentieth century?" Sherlock snorted. "Besides, I had the situation well under control."

John and Mycroft made nearly-identical noises of disbelief at that. 

"I must say it's a relief to have you back with us, Dr. Watson." 

John eyebrows rose. "I realize it's been a decade, but there's no need to insult me with formalities." 

"Very well, _John_. You are back, are you not?" Mycroft's smile was genuine – a rare sight.

John looked over at Sherlock, who was watching him with an expression of anticipation. John grinned. "Yes, I believe I am." 

Sherlock smiled into his tea cup and John felt something warm rise in his chest. Jesus, that mouth, and what it had done to him last night – John nearly squirmed at the memory. Mycroft cleared his throat after a moment, and John realized he'd been staring at Sherlock for several seconds. He blushed and looked away.

"Well, since all has been put right on Baker Street, I shall take my leave. Thank you for the tea, Sherlock. I'll be in touch." Mycroft set his cup and saucer on the sofa table and stood, fastening the button of his coat. He glanced over towards the fireplace and his eyes narrowed. "Why on earth is there a photo of me and Cynthia displayed on your mantel?"

"I liked Cynthia," Sherlock replied. "She distracted you just enough that I could have some time to myself."

"Oh, honestly. You make it sound as if I hover over your life constantly."

"You do exactly that," Sherlock retorted. "And perhaps if you'd done it less, she wouldn't have left you for her personal trainer."

Mycroft's lips pressed into a thin line at that. 

John winced. "Sherlock…" Sherlock turned to look at him, and his expression softened almost instantly. John pointed at the mantel. "If you're going to get rid of photos, you could lose the one of Philip as well."

Mycroft's gaze shifted over to the photo on the other side of the mantel, and then he shot Sherlock a knowing look. "How odd that—"

"So sorry you have to leave before breakfast," Sherlock said, standing and glaring at him. 

John glanced back and forth between them as they communicated silently for a moment.

At last Mycroft smirked and turned toward the door. His umbrella was leaning against the wall by the coat rack, and John smiled as he picked it up. "It is good to have you back, John. Do enjoy the rest of your weekend." 

"I intend to." John glanced over at Sherlock, who was fidgeting uncomfortably.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." Mycroft didn't wait for a response before closing the door and walking down the stairs.

"So." John folded his arms across his chest and turned to Sherlock.

"That's done, then. Breakfast?" Sherlock plucked Mycroft's empty cup from the table and headed toward the kitchen.

John raised his eyebrows at the obvious evasion and followed him. "Sherlock—"

"No eggs, but there's toast, at least."

John leaned back against the kitchen counter. "You put out that photo of Philip on purpose, didn't you?"

Sherlock tensed slightly, but continued his contemplation of the near-empty refrigerator. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"You wanted to make me jealous?"

"No. That was an entirely unexpected, though not unwelcome, response." He closed the refrigerator and turned to face John, and seemed to consider his words for a moment. "I wanted you to know that I'd had a life without you, that I'm not the same man I was ten years ago. That I'm capable of having relationships that don't end in… well, the way our friendship ended."

"I was jealous, you know. And not just for the obvious reason. I suppose I always thought I had a special place in your life, that I was somehow the only true friend you'd ever had. The idea that perhaps I wasn't so unique was…" John shrugged. "Well, it got me thinking, didn't it?"

"You were – are – the only true friend I've ever had." Sherlock pressed his lips together for a moment before continuing. "It took a while for me to work out that I was in love with you. I've always set my emotions aside, chose not to experience them whenever possible. Allowing myself to feel anger, remorse, sadness, empathy – it was counterproductive, even distracting. Disconnect offered clarity and purpose, and focused my attention on the work. But at the end, after Moriarty's trial, it was… so difficult to see that you were hurting, because of me. I knew then I would have to leave you, and how much it would hurt to do it. I was prepared to lose you forever, for you to move on with your life, thinking I was dead. If you were safe, it would be worth it, do you see?" John nodded, and Sherlock took a deep breath. "But what I didn't expect was how hard it would be to see the pain you were in, and not to be able to do anything about it. I was the cause of it. I was the reason, and it was…" He shook his head.

John swallowed. "Why didn't you tell me what was going on?"

"Not for the reasons you think." Sherlock hesitated a moment before continuing. "You think that I didn't trust you with the knowledge, that I didn't believe you could keep my secret. But that wasn't it at all. I couldn't bear the thought of putting you in danger. As long as you believed me dead, you were safe. If any of them had thought for a moment that you knew my whereabouts, they wouldn't have hesitated to…" 

John felt a strong impulse to step closer, to wrap his arms around him, but Sherlock took a small step backwards. John exhaled and wrapped his arms around himself instead. "I do understand, you know."

"You've no idea how many nights I lay awake thinking about that, and about all the terrible things that might happen to you because of me. Alive, I would cause you terrible pain and suffering. And of course, dead, I already caused you terrible pain and suffering. Catch twenty-two." He made a sound almost like a laugh, but there was anguish underneath it. "It became paralyzing, and I finally couldn't set it aside any longer. I had to stop and think about it and… that was when I realized I was in love with you, that I had been for a long time."

"I didn't know, not any of it." John sighed, swallowed. Jesus.

"I considered remaining dead, you know. It would have been easy enough. Coming back was complicated in many ways, and being a ghost is… well, it's appealing. But when it was over, and I had the opportunity to return safely home again, I imagined that, perhaps…" He looked up again and his smile was sad.

"Oh God." John closed his eyes: memories washed over him, of the pain on Sherlock's face all those years ago, of the harsh words John had said. It was all colored so differently now, and it was almost too much to contemplate. "I am sorry, Sherlock. I wish… God, I don't know." What did he wish? Could it possibly have been any different? Knowing what he knew now, perhaps, but he couldn't have known it then. 

"I'd played it out in my mind so many times. I knew you would be angry. I thought you would hit me, to be honest." 

John looked up at him and Sherlock's lips quirked slightly: he was joking. 

"Believe me, I considered it." John tried to smile, but couldn't. "I was just so… I don't know, angry that I hadn't worked it out. I felt like such a fool for believing it all that time. I thought you and Mycroft had used me, manipulated me."

"We did, to an extent."

"And I just wanted… God, I wanted to be as far away from it as possible. I got rid of everything in my life that reminded me of you." And even that hadn't been enough, had it?

Sherlock nodded. "I expected you to move on with your life, you know. I never thought that you would return my feelings. I had never seen any indication that you might be open to a relationship with a man, and that was fine. What I wanted most was for things to be as they were before, for us to be friends and to work together again. It would have been enough." 

John felt like the ground was shifting beneath him for a moment, and he took a steadying breath. "That first night when we went to dinner, you said that I'd married the wrong person, for the wrong reasons. And that's… yes, it's exactly right. I loved her, and she loved me, and it seemed like the perfect solution. I was just so tired of feeling the way I did, and she made me happy. It was good for a few years." 

He paused for a moment and looked up to see Sherlock watching him closely. There was no hint of jealousy in his expression, none of the sort of thing John felt when Sherlock spoke about Philip. Just quiet acceptance, and John didn't know how Sherlock could do that.

"But I couldn't tell her about my life with you. It was too painful, too much… I don't know. And she knew something was off, that there were things I wasn't telling her, and she often said there must have been someone in my past who'd broken my heart, who'd made it impossible for me to fully love anyone else again." He shook his head, frowned. "It used to make me crazy, you know? Because you and I – it hadn't been that way, and I thought maybe there was just something wrong with me that I couldn't love her the way I was supposed to." 

He inhaled, exhaled again. Sherlock's eyes were dark, and John could see an astonishing amount of empathy there. When had Sherlock become someone who could understand things like this?

"When I kissed you that night, it was… I haven't felt that way in a long, long time. It sounds ridiculous, but it was like fireworks went off in my head and everything felt right for the first time in years."

Sherlock stared back at him, his eyes wide, but said nothing. 

"And now, I… " He stopped and swallowed, not wanting to lose control now, not when it seemed so important that he say it all, that Sherlock understand. "I did try, you know? I knew I should have been happy that you were alive. I mean, who gets a second chance like that? I knew I should, but I just couldn't. I was so devastated that you'd… that you were…" He shook his head. "It was a lot to ask of me, you know, to just accept the fact that you hadn't really been dead all along, to be fine with the fact that I'd been lied to for years and… I _couldn't_ let it go." He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again, and looked up at Sherlock. "I'm so sorry."

"I know." Sherlock paused, exhaled smoothly. "And I regret that I hurt you, more deeply than anything I've ever done in my life."

"Sherlock, I…" No, no, no – he was not going to lose it now. John pressed his hands over his face and tried to compose himself. He took a deep breath and dropped his hands, forced himself to look at Sherlock again. Sherlock, who had loved him for a fucking decade and a half; who had sacrificed everything to protect John; who had come back and faced him, and hadn't asked for anything in return – not for John's friendship, nor even for his forgiveness. His vision blurred and he exhaled. "Shit."

Sherlock took an uneasy step forward, and another, and then John found himself wrapped in his arms, his face buried in Sherlock's shoulder. He took deep, even breaths, and managed to keep himself from losing it altogether. Sherlock held him tight, and they were both silent for a moment.

"I would like to try this, with you," Sherlock said at last, and he paused to clear his throat. "I know it's not something you expected, but… could we do that?"

"Yes," John tried to say, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat and looked up, tried again. "Yes."

Sherlock's smile was full of wonder and a touch of disbelief, but he kissed John, and John melted against him. And just like that, he felt happier than he'd done in ages, like the world was suddenly wide open, like he could do anything. He pressed Sherlock back against the countertop and went up on his toes, and kissed him as thoroughly as he could manage. His heart pounded in his chest and his eyes were wet, but he didn't care. It was perfect. 

After a few glorious minutes, both of them were trembling, and John pulled away and grinned. "Yes, this – you – this is what I want. I really do."

Sherlock exhaled. "That's… that's good." 

"More than good." John kissed him again, and then couldn't resist moving his lips against Sherlock's ear. "It's fucking fantastic."

Sherlock took a shaky breath. "So… is it too soon to ask you to move back in?" 

John leaned away from him, surprised. "I… As your flatmate? Or…"

"Ah, well." Sherlock looked flustered. "No. There's really just the one bedroom now. The one upstairs is more of an office at the moment."

"Yes, I noticed." Sherlock looked surprised, and John bit his lip. "I came here yesterday. Ella let me in. I was looking for some clue as to where you'd gone, and that seemed a good place to start. I found the photo, by the way." 

"Photo?" 

"The one you keep on the wall above the desk. I nicked it, to be honest. I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again. It got a bit mangled in my pocket, unfortunately."

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it again. "Perhaps I don't need it anymore."

"I don't know. You might want to remember a time when I had a bit more hair."

"Along with a different girlfriend every few weeks? I'd rather not." 

It was the closest thing to jealousy Sherlock had ever expressed, and John couldn't help smiling. "Yeah, I think I'm all done with girlfriends for the foreseeable future." Sherlock still looked hesitant, and John pressed a quick kiss against his lips, and then another, more lingering one, before pulling away with more than a bit of reluctance. "I'm all yours, all right?"

"You don't have to move in, you know. I have no expectations. This is already much more than I thought I'd ever have."

John shook his head. "It's not that I don't—"

"No, it's fine," Sherlock said, clearly embarrassed now. "You don't have to—"

"Stop," John said, and kissed him again. "I'm not going anywhere. I do need a bit of time, though. You've had years to think about it, and I've only had a few hours, so… Maybe we can take it slowly, at least for now."

Sherlock exhaled and pressed his forehead against John's. "That's good, that's… yes." 

John couldn't resist pressing his lips against the underside of Sherlock's jaw, rougher now than it had been the night before. 

Sherlock made a small sound of surprise and John felt his throat move as he spoke. "We could go out for breakfast, if you like. There's a café around the corner that does omelets."

"Or we could have some toast and go back to bed." John trailed his lips down the line of Sherlock's neck and then reached up to unbutton the very top of his shirt.

"I thought you wanted to take it slow." 

John leaned back enough to grin at him. "I didn't mean the sex part. That ship has already sailed, in case you didn't notice." 

Sherlock's cheeks turned a rather fetching shade of pink. "Right, yes. So. Toast?"

"Or…" John took a step backward out of the kitchen and tugged Sherlock's hand. "We could go back to bed now and go out for breakfast afterwards."

Sherlock stared back at him for a moment more, as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening, and then he smiled. "Even better."

"You made some promises last night that I hope you intend to keep." John took three more steps backwards, then stopped and held out his hand. 

"I do," Sherlock said, and stepped forward to take it.

*****

 

 

_ Epilogue: Three months later _

John propped the cardboard box against the door frame and leaned all of his weight into it to keep it in place as he turned the doorknob with one hand. The box started sliding almost immediately, and he had to kick at the door with one foot to keep it from closing again.

"Goddammit – a bit of help here?" 

The box slid to the floor and tipped over, spilling its contents into the entryway of the sitting room. Sherlock, lying on the sofa with his nose in a recent copy of a chemistry journal, didn't even look over at him.

John shot him a glare as he scooped his belongings back into the box and lifted it again. He carried the box to the bedroom and set it with the others in a corner before crossing back to the sofa. Sherlock raised his knees to allow John a place to sit on the opposite end, and John sighed. It was as close to an apology as he was likely to get. 

He sat down. "That's all of them, then."

Sherlock settled his bare feet in John's lap and didn't respond.

"When you said you were going to help, I hope you meant that you were going to clear out space in the wardrobe, like I asked you to do a week ago?"

"I said I'd help after I finished reading this article. It isn't my fault that you carried them all up before I was done."

There was a comment about Sherlock being a lazy fuck on the tip of John's tongue, but he stopped himself: that had been a clear attempt at evasion, and he'd nearly fallen for it. "So you haven't done it."

There was a pause. "No."

John clenched his jaw. "We discussed this at length, and we agreed that you would clear out space in the wardrobe for my clothes."

" _You_ discussed it at length. I agreed to nothing." Sherlock pointedly did not lower the journal. "I don't see why you can't keep your clothes in the upstairs bedroom."

"And have to go all the way upstairs every time I need to get dressed?"

"You did it when you lived here before."

"I was sleeping up there before. It's different."

"It's my office, you know. I have to walk up there every day myself. It's not as if you've got a bad leg."

John snorted and gestured at the wall behind the sofa. "Considering that this collage of police reports found its way down the stairs, not to mention the _three_ grisly experiments you've got going in the kitchen at the moment, I'd say you're reluctant to keep your own things confined to the upstairs as well."

"That's entirely beside the point."

"And you know what? I don't mind it, I really don't. It makes the place feel like home. But I want my clothes to be stored where I sleep."

"But I have all of my clothes organized and indexed." Sherlock's tone was heading rapidly towards whinging, a sign that John was gaining the upper hand. 

"You'll enjoy reorganizing it all. It'll be fun."

"I'm not that bored, John."

"I'm only asking for half the space. You can move the winter things upstairs, keep the warm weather clothes where they are."

"But—"

"If you really want me to sleep upstairs again, I suppose I could talk to Mrs. Hudson and locate a bed or—"

"Don't be ridiculous. You're not sleeping upstairs."

"Then I'll need to keep my clothes in the bedroom. _Our_ bedroom."

Sherlock groaned, and John knew he'd won. "Fine. I'll do it this weekend."

"No, this afternoon. I'm working this weekend and I want to unpack today, while I've got the time."

There was only silence from behind the journal, which meant Sherlock was stewing up a ludicrous excuse of some sort. John pursed his lips – time for a different approach. He glanced down at Sherlock's bare feet in his lap. Ah, yes: perfect.

He wrapped his hand around the arch of Sherlock's foot and stroked downwards with just enough pressure not to tickle, and then pressed his fingertips into the ball of Sherlock's foot. 

Sherlock didn't respond, but he'd gone very still. John continued the massage for several minutes before switching to the other foot. The journal remained firmly in place, though he doubted Sherlock had read a single word in the last few minutes. His eyes followed the line of Sherlock's bare legs up under the dressing gown, and he smirked.

"You're not wearing any pants, are you?"

"No." Sherlock's tone was one of suspicion. John grinned.

He shifted sideways and pushed at the knee closest to him. After a few seconds, Sherlock took the hint and lifted that knee, and John positioned himself between Sherlock's thighs. He leaned over and lifted the edge of Sherlock's dressing gown enough to see his penis underneath, and _oh_ how he enjoyed starting this way. He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the sofa, and teased the furls of Sherlock's foreskin with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock gasped, and a moment later John had a mouthful of hard cock. 

He looked up to see that Sherlock had dropped the journal at last and was staring down at him with wide dark eyes.

"Don't mind me," John said, unable to stop himself from smirking. "I can entertain myself down here until you're finished reading." He flicked his tongue against the frenulum and Sherlock's head fell back against the sofa cushions. John teased him mercilessly for a full minute before Sherlock groaned.

"Okay, tonight. I'll do it tonight, I swear, just… suck me, will you?"

John grinned and took the head in his mouth. He'd become quite an expert at this in a few short months, much to his own surprise. He'd always enjoyed giving head to women, so he supposed it shouldn't have come as a surprise that those skills would transfer. He enjoyed the slow slide down and the pull back up, and the way the glans fit just perfectly against the roof of his mouth, held in place while he massaged the underside with the flat of his tongue. It was glorious, and the fact that Sherlock was so very responsive made it even better.

In particular, Sherlock was not shy about telling John what he liked, which made for a delightfully dirty narration of the action. "That's – God, suck harder, right there – oh, your tongue is perfect – ah, fuck, John – finger me – no, two fingers, yes, yes – deeper, can you? – oh _God_ , your mouth, like that, yes – you're so fucking good at that—" 

"Is this how you want to come?" John sat back, not stopping the movement of his fingers in Sherlock's arse, watching with fascination as they disappeared into his body over and over, slick with his own saliva, stroking up against his prostate lightly, teasingly. He leaned forward again to flick his tongue against Sherlock's balls.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and then, "No, no, wait – I want you to fuck me."

"Bedroom," John said, and he was halfway there before Sherlock even managed to get off the sofa. 

He pulled a condom and lube from the top drawer of the nightstand and began fumbling with his shirt. Sherlock took the condom package from him and ripped it open, and had the condom rolled onto John's cock before he'd even stepped out of his trousers.

"Wait, let me—" John began, and then Sherlock pushed him back onto the bed. 

"We'll go slow later. Right now I want you to fuck me." He straddled John and smeared lube on himself with astonishing speed before grasping John's cock with one hand and sinking down.

"Christ, you—" John began, and groaned.

Sherlock's expression was strained and his erection had wilted, but he didn't pause. He grasped the headboard and pushed up on his knees, and then pressed down again.

John's hands found Sherlock's hips and held him there for a moment. "Wait, just let me feel you, okay? I need to… God, you're so—" 

"Move, please, I need—"

"Fine, okay, just let me—" John shifted a bit, tried to get some leverage against the mattress. "Here, like that—" He pushed his hips up and Sherlock pressed down against him, and _God_ , he loved this. Sherlock moved above him, establishing a brutal rhythm that John couldn't match, and he finally just let go, let Sherlock do all the work. Sherlock leaned forward a bit and then, there, that was the angle, that was it, and he grabbed fistfuls of the duvet, feeling the need to cling to something through it. It was just so tight and hot and fucking _perfect_ and, _shit_ , he was going to come and it was too late to stop it; he could only ride out the sharp waves of his orgasm. 

"Sorry, sorry," he said, and closed his eyes against the dizzying haze that settled over his brain. "That was just… Oh my God." 

Sherlock pulled up, tugged the condom off of him, and then disappeared to clean himself up. John inhaled, exhaled, opened his eyes, and then Sherlock was back on the bed, new condom packet in hand. 

"Can I?"

"Yes, of course. Anything after that."

Sherlock's fingers were warm and the lube was cold, but John was relaxed enough now that he didn't even flinch when Sherlock pressed two right into him with very little prelude.

"Kiss me," John said, and Sherlock leaned over him, pressed John's thighs apart, and caught his mouth in a slow, sweet kiss. His fingers disappeared and John felt his latex-covered cock press into him, stretch him open, shockingly easy. "Go slow," John whispered into his mouth. "I'm still a bit sore from the other night."

"I know." Sherlock's tongue circled his and John felt like he was floating. "Is it okay? Can I—" 

"Yes, go."

Sherlock moved slowly, so slowly, and it was lovely, different from the usual vigorous pounding they both preferred. It was almost – John grinned at the thought – romantic. 

"What?" Sherlock's voice was barely more than a whisper.

"It feels good, like…"

"Like what?"

"I don't know." He couldn't think of a way to say _like you're making love to me_ that wasn't horribly cheesy and clichéd, so he kissed Sherlock again, matching the tempo of their bodies with a long slow slide of tongue.

"So you like it slow as well?" Sherlock said nearly a minute later. "I had no idea." 

"Still surprising you, am I?" John smiled up at him, and Sherlock stopped moving. He stared down at John, and there was something in his expression that John couldn't quite identify. "That's not a bad thing, right?"

"No, it's just that you're… here." Sherlock ducked his head, pressed his face against John's shoulder. "You're really here."

John's arms snaked around him, pulled their chests together. "I am, I really am. And if you'll move half your shit out of the wardrobe, I might just stay."

Sherlock sat back abruptly, his cock slipping out of John's body, and John laughed. 

"I didn't mean right now, you wanker."

"Not now, no." Sherlock's eyes were bright, but his smile was wicked. "Right now I want you to turn over."

John grinned and rolled onto his belly. "All right, but more lube first." A moment later he felt something cold press against his arsehole, and he yelped at the sensation of lube being squirted directly into him. "Fucking warn me before you do that, will you?"

Sherlock snickered. "It wouldn't be nearly as much fun." He worked two fingers back into John's arse and stroked into him slowly, twisting in a way that made John squirm. He felt a slick thumb trace the tender skin around his anus, and he waited, but nothing happened. Sherlock seemed to be just… looking. 

"What are you waiting for?"

"Can you come again?"

John laughed. "I'm going to need an hour, and my arse won't be able to take it for that long. But I like the way it feels, you inside me." He pushed a pillow up under his hips and relaxed against the mattress. 

"I like the way it feels too." Sherlock's hand smoothed down his sides and over his arse, and then his fingers slid out slowly. John felt the blunt head of his cock press slowly inside him, just in enough to stretch him open gently, and then he rocked back and forth, not pressing in very far, stroking the sensitive skin just inside John's body with the head of his cock. "God, John. I could do this for an hour, if we went slowly enough."

John grinned, and tried yet again not to be jealous of Sherlock's stamina. "Not today, but I'll keep it in mind."

It had taken a good month for John to work up the nerve to try this. He'd liked the idea in theory, but the amount of trust it had taken for him to let himself be penetrated this way was sobering. He'd known it was something people enjoyed – that Sherlock enjoyed, in particular – but he hadn't expected it to feel so intense and intimate, to be a feeling he would come to crave, even without the promise of an orgasm at the end. Being on the other end of it, so to speak, had been rather enlightening. 

And Sherlock was very good at this, John had to admit. He moved with slow, sure strokes, carefully avoiding John's now-sensitive prostate, and John whimpered. 

"All right?" Sherlock's lips pressed against his shoulder.

He wanted to say, _yes, don't you dare stop_ , but he had to be realistic: if it went on much longer he'd regret it for days. "Are you close?"

"I can be."

"You can fuck me harder if you want."

"I was hoping you'd say that." 

Two minutes later, Sherlock collapsed against him, groaning. 

"Good?" 

"Fuck, yes." Sherlock's voice was muffled against John's skin, and John grinned. Sherlock hardly ever used profanity, but during sex he swore like a proverbial sailor, and John found it ridiculously hot.

"You know I love you," he said into the sheets, "but this is kind of uncomfortable."

"I'll move in a moment. Just need to lie here for a bit. Can't feel my toes." John wriggled beneath him, and Sherlock groaned, "Oh, all right." 

John winced at the sensation of his cock sliding out; he'd had to grit his teeth a bit there at the end, but it had been worth it. "I'm going to feel that tomorrow."

"Sorry. I'll make it up to you."

John turned onto his side and kissed him. "Yes, I know. I'll need half the drawers as well."

Sherlock fell back against the pillow. "But my sock index—"

"Wait, did you hear something?" John pushed up on one elbow and listened.

Sherlock yawned. "Knock at the door. Probably Lestrade. He texted right before you came home with the last load of boxes. A case, I assume."

"Shit." John scrambled for the box of tissues they kept on the nightstand and wiped himself off. He pulled his clothes on as quickly as he could manage and did a quick check in the mirror before dashing out to open the door. Sure enough, a very uncomfortable-looking Greg stood on the other side of it. 

Greg forced a smile. "Hi. You didn't answer the buzzer, so Mrs. Hudson let me in downstairs."

"Oh, right, sorry." John gestured him in. "We were, ah… busy."

"I gathered," Greg replied, and John winced.

"Yeah." There was a sound of running water from the bathroom, and John resisted the urge to turn and look. 

Greg looked over into the kitchen. "What's all this?"

"Experiments. Nothing illegal as far as I know." He started to laugh, but then realized that would probably seem far too suspicious.

Greg turned back again. "Yeah. So, you're all moved in?"

"Yes. As of today."

"Well, that explains the…" He gestured vaguely with one hand.

"Celebrating." 

"I was going to say clutter, actually." Greg's smile was finally genuine and John bit his lip.

"Right, so… how long were you waiting, anyway?"

"Oh, not long, really." Greg's expression was far too innocent to be believed.

There was a scoff behind them, and Sherlock rounded the corner from the bathroom, toweling his hands dry. To John's astonishment, he was completely dressed. "Five minutes, was it?"

Greg's mouth fell open. "No, I—"

"The door chime last rang nearly eight minutes ago, and it wouldn't have taken you more than a minute to climb the stairs. You first knocked at least six minutes ago, and then not again until after we'd finished having sex, which means you stood there and listened."

Greg flushed nearly crimson. "Well, it… sounded like you were almost done."

John turned to gape at Sherlock. "You heard him knock and didn't say anything?"

"You asked me to fuck you harder. I assumed you meant right then, and not after we'd answered the door, gone off on a case, and come home again."

"Jesus, Sherlock…" John groaned and pressed a hand over his eyes. They'd both been rather vocal during those last few minutes. He turned to Greg. "I suppose you got an earful, didn't you?" 

Greg rubbed at the back of his neck. "Ah. Yes. Totally deserved. Sorry."

Sherlock plucked a handful of grapes from the fruit bowl on the table and examined them through narrowed eyes. "Next time, come on in. You can watch, if you like." John and Greg both gaped at him, and he continued, "Bring your wife. She'd enjoy it." He popped a grape in his mouth and leaned back against the table, looking very pleased with himself.

John shook his head. "What the hell has got into you lately?" Sherlock's eyes glinted, and John threw a hand up. "Don't you dare answer that."

"Anyway," Greg said, apparently now determined to change the subject, "I wanted to let you know that the jury came back with a guilty verdict in the Bleakman trial this afternoon. The prosecutor said your testimony was indispensable, and to thank you for your—" He made air quotes with his fingers. "—cooperation." He winked at John, who rolled his eyes. Sherlock had been anything but cooperative. 

Sherlock snorted. "He wouldn't have had a case at all if it weren't for me. I handed it to him, and he—"

"He means _you're welcome_ ," John said, leveling a look at him before turning back to Greg. "Though frankly, if Sherlock hadn't gone to the lengths he did to get to Bleakman, he might still be on the streets." At Sherlock's smug expression, he added, "Not that there is ever a good excuse to let yourself be taken hostage by a serial killer, so don't even think about trying a stunt like that again."

"Everyone who matters knows it was down to you, Sherlock," Greg said. "So really, from the bottom of the collective hearts of the Metropolitan Police, and mine in particular, thank you."

Sherlock shrugged and ate another grape.

"So there's no case, then?" John turned back to Greg.

Greg grinned. "It's a slow week in London. Nice, innit?" As if on cue, his phone rang, and he frowned at the display before turning away with an apologetic look. "Lestrade," he said into the phone, and his expression became deadly serious. "Right, of course. Where?" He glanced up at Sherlock, who'd set the remaining grapes aside and pushed off the table. "On my way." He lowered the phone and drew his thumb across the screen, and looked over at Sherlock. "Double homicide in the West End and my forensics team is completely baffled. You up for it?"

Sherlock's grin was thoroughly indecent. "Absolutely. John?"

John smiled: he'd fallen back into this life so easily it was startling. He'd even cut back his shifts at the hospital to give him more time to work cases and start up the blog again. "Of course."

"I'm texting you the address right now. I've got to dash, but I'll see you there in a bit, yeah?" Greg tapped at the screen of his phone for a moment, and then both John's and Sherlock's phones pinged together. Greg headed out the door without another word, and Sherlock pulled his coat on, ready to follow.

"Just give me a minute," John said as he headed for the bathroom. "I've still got a lot of lube in uncomfortable places."

Sherlock was waiting for him when he emerged again, John's coat in one hand and the loaned gun in the other. John raised an eyebrow at him, but he took it, double-checked it was all in order, and then carefully tucked it into the back of his trousers. He looked up again to see Sherlock staring at him and biting his lip.

"What?"

Sherlock's cheeks tinted ever so slightly. "Nothing. Ready?" He held out John's coat.

John grinned and took it. "Ready."

~ _fin_ ~

**Author's Note:**

> [Gorgeous art for the ending](http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com/post/47875623215/the-very-last-scene-from-nothing-to-make-a-song) by Doublenegativemeansyes.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented on this story as it was being posted. It's always such an amazing sign of trust when readers wait week after week for each installment and keep coming back for more, and I appreciate it very much. I also want to thank those of you who took the time every week to leave such thoughtful, detailed feedback on every chapter. You know who you are and that I appreciate you, but I want to thank you again. It means a lot to me to know that something I've written has inspired someone to think and imagine and analyze, and I loved receiving those comments from you!
> 
> I also want to thank my incredible beta Drinkingcocoa, who put a tremendous amount of work into reading and commenting on multiple drafts of each chapter of this fic. She saw four different drafts of the last two chapters alone, and without her thoughtful commentary, I know those scenes wouldn't have hit the notes I wanted them to hit. 
> 
> Finally, thank you to Alecto for such a fantastic prompt. I really enjoyed writing this, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading it!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Nothing To Make A Song About by emmagrant01](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3117341) by [gurkenpflaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gurkenpflaster/pseuds/gurkenpflaster)
  * [[PODFIC] Nothing to Make a Song About](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7570834) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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